by Carly Keene
“What?” she asks, and bites into her toast.
“It’s naughty.”
“I’m almost done eating,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say darkly, and shove our plates out of the way to reach for her, stripping her naked of my clothes, letting her lush body rest like a feast on my kitchen table, eating her like second breakfast until she comes, letting her wrap her legs around me as I stroke into her, mindless in my own pleasure.
Afterwards, I carry her to the shower and we wash each other there, hands sliding over all our skin. “I don’t want to let you go,” I say into her hair.
“I don’t want to go,” she says into my chest.
“Then don’t go.”
“I have to go.”
I don’t say anything, but I hold her close.
“I have to go check on Corrine, if nothing else.” She sniffles. “I’m done with the shower, I’m getting out.”
She’s distant when I finish up and come back into the living room, freshly dressed. In her own clothes, she looks different. Older, more serious. “Could you possibly give me a ride to the hotel? Or I guess I could call them.”
“I’ll drive you.” I’m trying to sound normal, but there’s something wrong with my voice.
She looks at me through her long lashes, somber. She opens her mouth, then closes it twice before deciding on, “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“My pleasure,” I say, although my chest hurts.
“I’m sure it was,” she says, and blinks rapidly.
“I don’t make a habit of rescuing girls out of a snowy night and then falling for them in less than twelve hours,” I say sharply.
She ignores that and picks up her jacket. It’s bright outside today, but still cool enough that there are pockets of snow left on the ground. “Can we go?”
We don’t speak on the way back to the resort.
I try one more time just as she opens the door to get out. “Cassie. Can I have your number so I can call you? Last night meant a lot to me.”
She bites her lip, looking down. “Not a good idea.”
One more shot. “Stay.”
She looks at me, her face sad. “You’d be disappointed. Then I’d be disappointed. Best not to try.”
And then she’s gone, swallowed up inside the glass and chrome of the resort.
She’d looked so at home in the colors of my house. So natural. This isn’t her at all. I don’t know how I know her after so short a time, but I do, and this place is not where she belongs.
She belongs with me.
I go by the tractor supply place in town and pick up a large dog crate for Max as well as a bully stick or two, and I take it home to start training him to stay in it at night.
Because I’m not giving up hope.
CHAPTER TEN
Chapter 9
Cassie
I treat myself to a spa appointment before I check out. The whole time the therapist is working on me, rubbing out tiny knots of tension I hadn’t even known were there, smoothing lavender-scented oil over my skin, I’m wondering why I’ve chickened so completely out on New Cassie. I was getting to like her: her boldness, her willingness to open up and be loved.
But in the shower, with the smell of Weston’s body wash and his skin all over me, when he asked me to stay, I was suddenly so afraid that I had to run. I got as far away as I could, and I’m going to run away from Moonlight Ridge in just a few short moments.
Everything is pulling me to stay, except my own fear.
I’m so afraid I’ll screw it up, I admit to myself. If I give up everything familiar for Weston, I’ll be alone and vulnerable, and he could ditch me just like Josh did. I don’t think he would—but he could, and that would just kill me. It would hurt so much, I don’t know if I could keep living.
Best not to try.
Maybe.
“You’re all done,” the therapist says, patting my calf.
I thank her. I pack up my stuff (that I had barely unpacked anyway), and take a few more pictures of the room and the resort, and the beautiful blue-green mountains with snow on their tops outside, and then I get my car from the valet and drive home.
The way back is much, much shorter than the way here, and my heart sinks farther into my feet the farther I drive. I’m so tired after my ordeal in the cold yesterday, and the incredible pleasure of sex with Weston last night, and the broken sleep, that I just heave my suitcase up the stairs and inside my apartment door, and go straight to bed.
I wake up late Monday morning. My phone’s dead, so I charge it up and reply to the thirty-two text messages I have from Corrie and my mom, saying I’m fine, I enjoyed the weekend, and I’ll tell them about it later.
And then I sit on my couch and binge-watch “Tiger King” on Netflix, just to horrify myself, and I eat all the Twizzlers I have in the apartment, and I mope. I get Chinese delivered and binge-watch “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” on Amazon Prime, and I watch Midge raze the supposedly-great life she had to the ground, in the wake of her cheating husband’s departure, and start pursuing the life she really wanted for herself.
I think about Weston.
I think about how good I felt in his house. How good I felt up in those mountains, away from the rat race currently honking its way through rush hour outside my window. How good he made me feel in his bed, in front of his fire, on his kitchen table (and that was super hot), in his shower . . .
I think about being afraid. How I was never ever afraid with him, even though I had never met him before. I was only afraid when he asked me to stay. When he said he loved me.
And I say it out loud to myself: I love him too.
I love him too.
I pick up my phone and call Corrine. “Hey, you feeling better?”
She heaves a sigh into the phone. “Mostly. Now I’m just hoping Jordan and Ava don’t get sick. So? Did you have a great time?”
I take a long breath and then let it out. “Well, it was . . . unexpected. Corrie, be patient with me, okay? Because I need to tell you some stuff, and I need to apologize, and then I need your advice.”
“Oh-kay,” she says, puzzled but patient.
I tell her about getting lost on the drive and not realizing about the quiet zone, and the carb overdose and the oversleeping on the first night. And about New Cassie and the hike, and being stupid and getting lost again, and the snow, and almost freezing. About not really taking advantage of the vacation that Corrie and Tom had to miss out on and so kindly gave to me.
And about Weston.
A lot about Weston.
I finally run out of things to say, but that’s okay because Corrie is asking me eight million questions that all boil down to, “Did he make you happy?” I answer them: yes, I liked his house. And his dog. Yes, he talked to me, really talked. No, I don’t know exactly how many orgasms, but it was a lot of orgasms.
“I’m jealous,” she says. “I mean, it was almost like a honeymoon! It’s not like Tom’s not good in bed—”
“TMI!” I shout at her. Tom’s my brother-in-law and I have to see him at Thanksgiving for the rest of my natural life, so I don’t want to know about his g-spot technique.
“Well, you just told me about Weston’s cunnilingus skills,” Corrie says defensively. “You don’t think that’s too much information?”
“I got carried away,” I confess. “And that’s it. Basically, I’m worried I got carried away this past weekend and it was all that sort of unsustainable dream-vacation sex stuff that doesn’t last, in real life.”
“Maybe it was unsustainable dream sex,” Corrie says reasonably, “but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real between you two. It’s harder to have great sex with little kids in the house, but I think maybe it’s enough to want to have great sex and get a spa vacation every now and then, so you can get kinky in the whirlpool tub.”
“TMI,” I warn her again.
“Tom’s great,” she says. “He does this thing—”
“Do not te
ll me!”
“Okay. But now I think you owe me a babysitting weekend so he can go do me on hotel sheets I didn’t have to wash.” She laughs. “Unless you decide to just be New Cass and go get him back.”
“I want to,” I admit.
“So what’s stopping you?” she asks.
I can’t think of a good reason.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chapter 10
Weston
It’s Day 5 since Cassie left.
I’ve thrown myself into working, and trying to train Max into thinking that his crate is a great, safe, comfy place to sleep in. I got him a nice fleece blanket for it, and there’s a toy he only gets when he’s in there. But I’ve quickly figured out that the crate needs to be in my bedroom, at least for now. It’s fine, we’ve got nothing but time.
I look around at my cabin: the rustic furniture that Wyatt made custom for me. Granny Pat’s quilts and Aunt Sarah’s afghan. I love this place, but after just one night with Cassie in it, it feels different now. It feels empty, and lonely.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to wash the clothes that she wore when she was here. They smell like her.
Wyatt comes by to see if I want to go coon hunting with him. I say no.
Some of the guys from work talk me into hitting Johnny’s Tavern with them after work. I drink a few beers, play darts. It’s a nice time. But it’s not like being with Cass.
My mother calls from Florida. I find myself telling her about Cassie, leaving out the more salacious stuff (c’mon, nobody wants to tell their mother about head-banging sex). She’s sympathetic, and full of ideas.
“You could Google her!”
“Mom. That’s, like, stalkery.”
“It’s not! I tell you what, look her up on Facebook!”
“Mom. Seriously.”
“Look her up!” Since she got to Florida and started using a smartphone, my mom has gone in big for social media. Thing is, she’s still the tail-end of the Boomer generation, and she thinks she’s more tech-savvy than she really is.
“A lot of people her age use Instagram instead, Mom. They don’t even have Facebook accounts.” I explain, over her repeated advice to “look her up!” I’ve barely used my own Facebook account, and that mostly to keep up with the few college friends I still care to keep track of. No way am I messing with Instagram. Or, God forbid, Twitter.
I give up. “Okay, Mom, I’ll try that.” At least it gets her off my back.
It’s stupid, but I give it a shot. There are two hundred and seventeen Cassie Hudsons/Cassandra Hudsons/Cassidy/Cassidie/Casady Hudsons on Facebook, and even when I narrow it to Pennsylvania, I don’t see her gleaming red-brown hair on anybody’s profile picture.
Dammit.
There’s a knock on the front door, which is unusual. Wyatt and all my aunts and cousins come to the back. We’re pretty country.
I pull it open, and Cassie’s on the front porch. There’s a little red Honda pulled up behind my big truck, but after that one glance, all I can see is her: wavy chestnut hair, glowy brown eyes, soft full pink mouth. Her beautiful body, in jeans and a red sweater.
“Cass,” I say, but I can’t say anything else.
“Is it okay? That I’m here?” she says, her eyebrows mashed together in sudden worry. “Is it a good time?”
I can’t answer. I just step forward and pull her to me. I wrap my arms around her and breathe in the smell of her hair. I know she can feel my hard-on, but I don’t care. “You’re here. Anything is good. Everything is good. Don’t leave.”
And she laughs out loud, into my shirt, her fingers tight on my back. “I was so hoping you’d say that.”
“Why?” I let my hands slide down to her great curvy ass, fitting her closer to me.
“Because I did something reckless.” She looks down, then up. “I sublet my apartment and I stored a bunch of my stuff at Corrine’s. I figured this was a good time to really be New Cass.”
I remember her talking about New Cass. “So what plans does New Cass have?”
“New Cass wants to stop being scared of loving you.” She raises her face to my kiss, and we cling together, our lips and tongues exploring. She’s probably got the imprint of my hard dick on her belly when I let her go enough to talk. “So,” she says, a little breathless, “can I stay?”
“As long as you want.”
She bites her lip. “Um. I was thinking maybe . . . forever?”
“Longer than that,” I tell her. “Longer than that.”
And then we go inside and send Max to his crate with his toy, and we go to the bedroom and take all our clothes off, and we make love. Kisses. Caresses. I lay her back on my white sheets and look at her perfect skin, at her taut pink nipples and her wet pink pussy, her legs spread to welcome me, and I dive headfirst into her, making her moan in pleasure. We do it missionary style, going slow and sweet, each thrust like a deep tongue kiss between cock and cunt, just us together.
“Forever?” I say, just before I find my climax inside her.
“Longer than that,” she says.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Epilogue
Cassie, two years later
I look up from my bread dough to see my husband come in from work. He’s muddy but smiling.
“Hey, babe,” he says, reaching over the kitchen counter to kiss me, “I’m a mess. We cleared up the banks of the East Branch today, got a bunch of sticks and crap out of there. Gonna go shower.”
“Good,” I say. I’m about to put this dough in the bowl to proof and rise; it’ll take at least an hour. I let him kick off his shoes and dirty work clothes in the lean-to mud room, and watch Weston’s fine ass walk past on the way to the bathroom.
“I have news, and a request.” I raise my voice so he can hear me. “Later, okay?”
He nods.
I finish kneading the bread its hundred and fifty times, and pile it into the greased bowl, turning it to make sure it has a greased top and then covering it with a clean tea towel. It’s a triple recipe that makes nine loaves, six of which I’ll sell to the Green Bank General Store. Tomorrow I’m on to banana bread and some Amish friendship bread, as well as a multigrain boule that I’ve been developing.
The water goes on in the shower. I check the chicken pasta soup in the pot on the stove, and turn the heat down so it doesn’t scorch. I coax Max into his crate with his favorite chew toy.
And then I stop outside the bathroom door and take my clothes off before I go in and join Weston under the warm water.
“You’re not making bread?” he asks. He dribbles shower gel from the bottle onto my breasts, and starts lathering me up all over.
“It’s set to rise,” I explain. I reach my hand down to caress his hardening cock, smiling too. “Looks like this is set to rise, too.”
“Any time we’re together, sweetheart,” he says, and kisses me, his tongue expertly stroking mine. His hands are warm and wet on my back, sliding down to cup my butt and pull me close to him, his beautiful long thick cock pressed between us, slippery and hot against my belly. A rush of heat radiates out from my ladyparts, and I spread my thighs apart so he can touch me. He gets more shower gel, dripping it down my back, lathering it down from my shoulders to my ass and between my legs.
“Oh,” he says, “shit, you’re so wet, Cass.” His fingers are strong and arousing against my secret folds, and I moan. He slips one finger inside me, then two. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I need you so bad. Can you turn around and brace on the shower wall?”
I hesitate, not quite ready.
“I want to lick you,” he whispers, pulling his fingers out of my pussy and rubbing them across my clit.
I turn, feeling my nipples harden against the cool ceramic wall, spreading my feet apart and bending to give him access to my pussy. He licks me from slit to clit and back again, then over my pucker. This always startles me, and I always feel a little weird about it for a few seconds before I just make myself relax and enjoy it. Which I do. His tong
ue is all over my sensitive parts, and his hands too, and he moans in anticipation. “Cass. I need you,” he says again, and I nod, panting.
“I need you, too.”
Then his hard thick cock is gently pushing its way into my pussy, filling me up, and his thumb pokes just a little way into my back door, and I am so fucking turned on by my beautiful husband that I reach down and rub my own clit, speeding myself to catch up to him.
“You look so good,” he says, gripping my hips harder. “You feel so good. Fuck, honey, you feel like heaven. So slippery, so hot . . .”
“You feel good too,” I gasp, feeling my climax bearing down on me. “Oh shit—Weston—I’m gonna come!” And my climax washes over me, making my pussy walls grip his cock like a fist.
His hands tighten even more on my hips, and then he grips me hard and groans, pressing so far into me I swear I could feel him in my belly. Jets of hot moisture bathe my pussy.
I love that.
We recover and finish washing each other, whispering love words into the noise of the shower. Doesn’t matter if we can’t quite hear them, we know they’re there.
He helps me out of the shower and towel-dries me, taking extra time around my breasts. He’s gentle, but I flinch.
“Sorry,” he says, frowning. “I didn’t think I was being rough.”
“You’re not. They’re just sensitive,” I explain. “Apparently that’s pretty common at this stage.”
He blinks. “Stage of what?”
“Early pregnancy,” I say primly, and watch in complete satisfaction as his mouth falls open.
“We’re having a baby?” he says, flabbergasted.
“Uh-huh.”
“When?”
“In about seven months.” I can’t keep the smile off my face. “You’re gonna be such a great daddy.”
“Oh hell yeah,” he says, and kisses me. “Wait. That was the news?”
“That was the news.”
“I got news for you, hon,” he says, and swings me up into his arms. “I’m not done making love to you yet!” He carries me to the bedroom and drops me on the bed, eagerly crawling to join me.
