by Pam Godwin
Angling my neck, I find his deep, brown eyes and fall right in. “I cried a lot, so…”
“You need to do more of that.”
“I feel like I’ve been hit over the head with a tractor.”
“You look like an angel.” He runs his fingers through my hair in hypnotic strokes, tingling the roots. “Tell me about the good part.”
“Who’s doing your job?”
He exhales a puff of breath. “Two new hires started today. I’m taking off for the next two weeks.”
“What?” I sit up. “Why?”
He captures my hand and traces his thumb along my scar. “We have a pact to carry out, therapy sessions to focus on, and…” Using his grip, he yanks me across his chest. “I have six years to make up with you.”
I flatten my hands on his washboard stomach and pull my legs beneath me, straddling his hips. The ridge of his very swollen, very large morning wood twitches against my butt.
“I could spend the next two weeks doing nothing but reacquainting myself with your freckle.” His gaze lowers.
I track his line of sight to my nipples, which stand at attention beneath my thin, bra-less camisole.
“I need to see that freckle, Conor.” His voice scratches, and he clutches my hips, pressing me down against him.
He doesn’t grind, but his body stiffens and contracts as if he’s fighting one hell of an internal battle.
It’s a battle I understand. Jake epitomizes every woman’s ideal of physical male beauty. From his bed-ruffled brown hair and seductive eyes to his chiseled jawline and brutally fit physique, he has a devastating effect on the ovaries.
I’m so undeniably attracted to him I can’t make my body move from its suggestive position on his pelvis. But just because I appreciate his sex appeal, it doesn’t mean I’m considering a future or anything else with him.
I had all night to think about the past, to let myself bleed for the years I lost with him. There are some difficult things to accept, and I suspect my tears have only just begun. I do feel lighter, though, as if some of my Jake-related hurts have been cleansed.
“Catharsis,” I whisper.
His gaze jumps to mine. “What?”
“That’s what I’m feeling. I haven’t cried like that since…” A sharp burn stings my sinuses.
“Since?”
“The day I found you with Sara Gilly. When I rode away, I purged enough tears for a lifetime. Then I left that ruined wreck of a girl on the side of the road.”
Pain creases his face, his voice a cracked rasp. “It doesn’t work that way. Grief is a process. It’s anger and sadness and acceptance over time.” His strong throat rises and falls with a swallow. “It’s okay to hit me, Conor. Punch me, yell at me, do whatever you need, for however long—”
I press a finger against his lips. “The breakdown last night helped. Crying in the company of your silence was…unexpectedly effective. Better than doing it alone.” Sliding my touch downward, I trace the scruffy shadow on his jaw. “But I still have a lot of resentment. Even more after last night.”
“Tell me.” He strokes my thigh, urging me on.
“The night in the barn wasn’t fate exactly, but it fulfilled something important. Something that was stolen from us when we were sixteen. It was meant to be, you know?” I lick dry lips. “Had I known it was you that night, had I known you were giving me your virginity…”
I drop my hand to his chest, my insides constricting with heartache.
“Keep going.” He covers my fingers with his.
“I resent you for not telling me. I resent the years that came after. My relationship with Miles. Your…whatever with whoever has a vagina. That wasn’t meant to be.” I pull my hand from his and curl it into a fist against my midsection. “I can’t stop picturing you with those women, and I’m sick to my soul with jealousy. I don’t know how to get over that. You were mine, dammit.”
“I still am.” Conviction burns in his eyes.
I look away, focus on his lips, and think about all the women who have tasted him. And it hurts.
“Conor. Give me your eyes.”
I stare at the sculpted perfection of his torso and think about all the acrylic nails that have passionately scored his skin. And it hurts.
“Conor.” The command in his voice compels my gaze to his. “I love you.”
He watches me with a deafening look, his hands resting on my thighs, our bodies an impulse apart. My heart pumps so loudly I’m certain he hears it.
We’re not going to have sex, but he can sure tempt the hell out of me with his unshakable attention. Lying there on his back, all stretched out between my thighs, he seems content with just looking at me. He always does that. Always stares at me like I’m the only view in the world.
It moves something inside me, a fluttery pull through my gut, revealing a turn-on I wasn’t aware of before. His assertive, uninterrupted attention on me makes my skin hum and my pulse race. It arouses me.
I don’t trust him, but I feel things for him. I feel this moment, the wonder in it.
Slowly, the knot around my heart loosens, and my breathing becomes arrhythmic.
His eyes seek mine, and his hand reaches for me. I catch it and redirect it to the shoulder strap of my camisole.
He stops breathing.
I don’t think about what I’m doing as I use his fingers to slide the strap to my upper arm and let it fall. Then I release his hand and give him leave to roam.
His touch on my chest is tentative, so achingly slow and cautious as the pads of his fingers reveal a hairbreadth of skin at a time. Such a contrast to the hand squeezing my thigh.
We watch each other through the unhurried descent of my top. As the elastic edge meets my nipple, we both look down.
He unchokes his held breath when he sees the freckle. His mouth parts. His nostrils flare, and his smoldering gaze scorches my exposed breast, melting me there and everywhere.
He sits up, his voice gravel and smoke. “Lift up on your knees.”
With a shiver, I obey, straddling his lap. The position puts my chest level with his face. His nearness is unbearable, inviting a needy ache to gather and throb between my legs.
He teases my top down with prolonged tenderness, his fingers featherlight, reverent, as they brush over the swells of my breasts. By the time the camisole slouches around my waist, I’m trembling, panting, and wet. Soaked through to my cotton shorts.
Covering my chest with his hands, he caresses and cups and molds my flesh. Every touch pulses a wave of heat to my pussy. I wobble on my knees and grip his shoulders.
He feels so warm I slide my palms down his chest, tracing the shape and texture of him while he does the same with me.
The room echoes back the whispers of our movements. The stroke of hands, shortening breaths, shifting legs, rustling sheets, vibrating moans—the sounds of two souls stitching back together.
It’s a moment of alarming realization. The instant I lowered the strap of my top, I opened the door. Everything will change after this, and given the predatory look in his eyes, he knows.
“Jake.” I move my hands back to his shoulders. “I didn’t intend to—”
“Just a few more seconds.” His arms wrap around me, bringing my chest to his lips.
Then he kisses me there. Mouth open, breaths panting, he sucks and nuzzles the vicinity of my freckle until my back bows and his whiskers burn my skin.
I stab my fingers in his thick tousled hair, holding on, pulling him closer, and pushing him away. Reason battles need, distrust rivals hope, and confusion wins.
“We can’t do this.” It’s a protest on my lips and an invitation in my head.
“I don’t deserve you.” Anguish crashes across his expression. “After all the pain I caused you—”
“You were protecting me.” I don’t know why I’m arguing. He did hurt me. But I can’t bear that look on his face. “I want to forgive you.”
He stares at me with eyes so full of
hope. Then he twists his fingers in my hair and wrenches my mouth to his.
The moment his tongue rubs against mine, my skin burns red-hot, an answering fever to the aggression in his grip and the hunger in his kiss. Our breaths coalesce in loud, shaky gasps, singeing the air that dares confine us.
“God, Jake.” I pant against his sinful lips. “You’ve always been such a good kisser. But now…” I let him catch and lick my tongue, moaning into his mouth. “All your practicing over the years has paid off.”
He leans back and flashes me a wolfish smile. It’s a smile that will stick with me, bandaged over the bruises on my heart, even if I spend the rest of the day scolding myself for giving it to him.
He drops a kiss on each of my breasts and flattens his grin into a line of seriousness. “We have a three-hour car ride ahead of us.”
“Three-hour…?” Comprehension zips through me. “We’re going to see Lorne?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He slams a hand against my butt. “Go take a shower.”
I swallow a gulp and shudder with delicious tingles. “Stop doing that.”
He spanks me again, harder. “If you’re not in that shower in ten seconds, I’m joining you.”
I go, off the bed and across the room, yanking my top up to cover my chest.
“Conor.”
I twist my neck and find him sitting on the edge of the bed.
Lips swollen and hair mussed, he gives me the full force of his eyes. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever kissed.”
That afternoon, Jake and I sit across the table from a man I barely recognize.
The last time I saw my brother was four years ago, and since then, he’s been moved to a unit that allows contact visitations on the weekends.
No glass partitions. No telephone receivers. Still no touching, except for a brief hello and goodbye hug.
I’ve been tongue-tied since the moment I walked into the visiting room and spotted him.
He and Jake fall into the easy camaraderie that’s always existed between them. Meanwhile, I can’t stop staring at the hardened, gruff-voiced man before me.
He sounds like he smokes two packs a day, and he looks like he spends all his time punching a heavy bag. Or other inmates. It’s not that he’s overly muscular. He just seems really strong. The mean kind of strong.
His sunken cheeks accentuate the blade-sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Dark circles underline his dark green eyes, and an undercurrent of violence hovers around him. His demeanor threatens anyone who dares a peek in his direction.
What has this place done to him?
“Conor?” His head cocks, eyes narrowed.
“Hm?”
“I asked you a question.”
Jake shifts beside me and rests an arm along the back of my chair. “Of course, I’m taking care of her.”
“He’s helping me through some things.” I tap my fingers on the table, wondering how much Lorne knows about Jake’s attempt at psychotherapy.
Lorne glances at my nervous twitching and meets my eyes. “When did you get the ink?”
Relieved by his question, I update him on the tattoo sessions, my schooling, and Miles York. “I played your guitar.”
“Yeah.” His cheek bounces with an almost smile. “Jarret told me. Wish I could hear you play.”
He asks about my classes, and I dive into the details of my lab work. The more I talk, the more I relax. He interrupts with the kind of inquiries and responses I expect from Lorne, and I start to feel like I’m chatting with my brother and not some convicted murderer.
I’ve never labeled him as such, even though that’s exactly why he’s here.
He murdered a man.
In less than two weeks, I intend to do the same thing.
Except the man he killed was innocent.
“Do you regret it?” My whisper creeps across the table and shivers along the dull concrete walls.
“No.” He sets his forearms on the surface and leans forward. “Your life is worth more than a hundred years served in here. Ten years is nothing.”
“My life? What does that have to do with—?”
“Tell her.” Lorne glares at Jake. “Soon. She needs to understand my position on this.”
“I will.” Jake rests a hand on my thigh.
“I need to understand all of it.” I push his arm away and tick a furious glare between them. “The three of you have been plotting and scheming and riding roughshod over my life, and I’m done with it.”
“We’re trying to help you.” The heat in Lorne’s eyes is fiercer than my own.
“I don’t need help.”
“You have PTSD, Conor.”
I know he’s right and bury the thought. “Help me by telling me the truth. You guys say you’re protecting me, but I don’t know why I need protection in the first place.”
I glance around the room, knowing we can’t discuss this here. Conversations are monitored and recorded.
“Convince him to tell me.” I thrust a thumb at Jake. “Did you know he’s holding information for ransom?”
“What’s the progress on that?” Lorne asks Jake.
“She’ll know everything within the next two weeks.” Jake looks at me sidelong. “If she behaves.”
“You can both kiss my ass.” I huff out a breath, exasperated. “I’m not standing on any more stumps. I’d rather hang my saddle on the fence and throw dirt at it.”
“I don’t envy you.” Lorne grins at Jake, and that smile sucks the irritation right out of me.
The back-road curve of his mouth brightens his eyes, returning the brother I remember, the happy boy who teased me as much as he protected me.
“I miss that smile.” My hand itches to reach for him, but touching isn’t allowed. “I miss you.”
He has four years left to serve. If he keeps his nose clean in here, he might get paroled in two years.
“I miss you more than you know.” His smile vanishes beneath darkening eyes and a furrowed brow. He lowers his stare to the scar on his palm and presses a thumb against it. “I wish I could be there when you honor our pact.”
“Me, too,” I say.
Jake grips my hand under the table, and I let him.
Lorne looks up, his expression soft. “I wish I could be a part of your healing process. Someday, I hope you forgive me for keeping you away.”
My heart squeezes. “Can we talk on the phone? Can I call you?”
“I’d love that.”
We catch up on little things until our hour is over. Then we end the visitation with the quick hug-and-release contact we’re allowed.
Jake collects his hat and belt from the security desk and walks me to his truck.
Thirty minutes into the drive home, he hasn’t spoken much, but I feel him watching me in that way he does. Monitoring, assessing, trying to read my thoughts.
“You should keep your eyes on the road.” I swipe through my playlist, looking for a new song.
When he returned my phone this morning, he informed me he called Miles and arranged to have my belongings packed up. I don’t own much—just a laptop and clothes—so there should only be a few boxes. Since I don’t have a place to live at the moment, I didn’t argue when he said the boxes would be shipped to the ranch.
“I need to find an apartment.” I continue to scroll through my music selection, dismissing all the cheery songs.
“It’s only an hour drive between the ranch and school.” He glances at me. “When we were kids, that was our plan. You were going to stay with me at the ranch and drive to school every day.”
“I’m not moving in.”
“You already have.”
“You’re delusional.” I keep my gaze on the phone, protecting myself from the enchantment of his gorgeous brown eyes.
“I know I haven’t earned your trust or forgiveness, but I will.”
I pretend to ignore him.
His hand clenches on the steering wheel, and he punches the gas pedal, jerking me back aga
inst the seat. “Stop fucking with your phone and look at me.”
My search for a song ends as Not Ready To Make Nice by Dixie Chicks crosses my screen. I press play and throw him an arched eyebrow.
As he listens to the lyrics, a black cloud shifts across his face. The cords in his neck stretch. His lips pull back, and his hand snaps through the space between us. “Give me the phone.”
I angle it out of his reach.
“Now!” He roars, making me jump.
Anger flashes in his eyes, and something akin to fear carves through me. I quickly hand it over.
He powers it off and secures it in the console, with his elbow resting on the lid. Then he turns his gaze to the road.
Swallowing past a tight throat, I find my voice. “What just happened?”
“I’ve been too soft on you.”
“Too soft—?”
“You needed a couple of days to adjust to being home and around me again. I gave you that.” His eyes lure and capture mine. “My goodwill has come to an end. It’s about to get very real for you.”
A chill whispers across my skin. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Expect more of that. More discomfort with a whole lot of tears and pain and catharsis. Cross those arms all you want. You’ll stand up to the challenge, because the Conor I know never backs down.”
I uncross my arms. “I’m not that girl.”
“That’s right. You’re stronger, fiercer, and so goddamn ornery it makes me hard. Really fucking hard.” The hoarse rasp of his voice curls through me like a slow burning flame. “I fell in love with your resilient spirit, and you’re still in possession of that. If you weren’t, I’d do this another way.”
My reflexive reaction is to punch him in the nuts, but I’ll save that fight for when he tells me what he’s planning.
“In two weeks,” he says, glancing between me and the road, “we’re going to commit the same crime that put your brother in prison.”
“Except Lorne killed an innocent man. Wyatt Longley lost his life for no reason.” I hope to God Jake isn’t getting cold feet. “Levi Tibbs doesn’t deserve to breathe.”
With one hand on the steering wheel, he places the other on the seat between us, palm up. “Give me your wrist.”
