by Jc Emery
“Dad?”
“Yeah?” Wyatt’s voice is low and rough. Emotional. About a week ago Zander asked Wyatt what he should call him. It was awkward and sweet and so many things that it broke my heart. My boy never should have had to ask. He should have always had his dad, and his dad should have always had his son. And no amount of feeling like shit is going to give that back to either of them.
“Are you, um . . . do you . . . I mean,” Zander stumbles over his words.
“You can ask me anything. No joke. You ask, I’ll answer.”
“Do you like my mom?”
Well, that whole not being tense thing is totally not happening now. My entire body stiffens at the question.
“Fuck,” Wyatt says heartily. There’s a laugh in there somewhere judging by the shaking of his chest. “Boy, I love that woman something fierce.”
“Are you going to live with us? Are you getting back together?”
“We weren’t ever not together,” Wyatt says earnestly. “You know that tattoo your mom’s got on her back? And the one on her shoulder? Those tell the entire world that she’s mine. No man will ever have her without seeing my name on her skin. Nobody will ever see her body without knowing she belongs to Forsaken. I screwed up a lot, and we couldn’t be together back then, but you, me, Pips, and your mom? We’re family, and nothing beats that. I live where you live. I sleep where your mom sleeps. She doesn’t have to like it, and she doesn’t have to let me touch her, but I’m here.”
“Too far, man,” Zander says in disgust, his voice trailing off. I hold back the snicker in my throat. “A simple yes would have worked. I’m going to go shower now if I can find a towel.”
“How do you think you and your sister got here? We certainly didn’t make you while in separate rooms.” Wyatt’s taunting dissolves into full-on laughter. He turns his body into mine, wraps his arms around my waist and legs, and pulls me onto his lap. I try not to stir, but my stillness gives me away.
“You’re a shit liar.”
I peek one eye open slowly, met by Wyatt’s disapproving gaze. My eyes open and close rapidly in an attempt to portray an innocence we both know doesn’t exist. One of his hands finds its way to my chin. He holds it steady so I can’t pull away. I shift, only realizing too late it’s the wrong thing to do.
“Keep doing that and I’m going to be hard enough to fuck you on this tiny-ass couch.” Wyatt’s words tumble out all dark and rough but still soft somehow.
“This couch isn’t tiny. You’re just enormous,” I say in defense of my old-ass piece of furniture.
“And you still can’t fake sleep. After all these years you still think you can snow me,” he says. Very slowly, he leans in and our noses are side by side, our foreheads pressed into one another.
“You told our son we’re sleeping in the same bed,” I say accusingly.
“We are.” His voice is low, his breath heating my skin. I breathe him in only to wish I hadn’t. He smells like burgers and root beer—because that’s what he had with dinner, a freaking root beer—but underneath all that is his spicy scent that can’t be from a soap or shampoo. It’s just Wyatt. I’ve missed it so much that at times it felt like I was suffocating without it. Like if I couldn’t remember how he smells, I’d just waste away to nothing right then and there. It never happened—God was never that generous—but it felt real enough that it could be a serious possibility at the time.
Wyatt slides his hand down from my jaw to my chest, laying his palm flat against my heart. His eyes fall closed, and I swear, I think I’m watching him listen to my heartbeat. It’s crazy fast now, with the way he’s touching me. His calloused fingers press so gently but determinedly against my bare skin. The scoop neck I’m wearing used to have a higher neckline before my kid make it her personal mission to work out by yanking on my clothes all the time. Now, though, I’m grateful for Piper’s annoying yanking on clothes, because I can’t imagine having his hand over a thin layer of cotton.
“I love you, you stupid woman,” Wyatt says softly. His eyes are still closed, prompting mine to shutter closed as well. I breathe him in and keep quiet. I shouldn’t give in to this, but I’m a selfish creature. I want my man back if even for a night. Wyatt presses his lips softly against mine. I move into him, but still he doesn’t remove his hand from my heart. Our kiss is soft and full of promise and hope, and it absolutely slays me.
Hope is the death of all things.
“If you were done with me, with us, I’d know. Your heart wouldn’t be beating this hard. But it is. I’m a part of you, even if you don’t want me to be. So yeah, we sleep in the same bed.”
I’m scared and furious and trembling. I want to tell him these things. I want to tell him so much, but I don’t because he’s right. I’m not done with him. I couldn’t ever be done with him. I move a shaky hand to his heart, sliding it under his cut and placing it above his worn dark-red shirt. His heart beats at a normal speed that almost infuriates me. How can I be such a nervous wreck and it’s like he isn’t feeling anything? I open my eyes to find he’s watching me with a purposeful gaze.
Love.
It’s love that shines back at me. He loves me, and he knows this is right. That’s why he’s so assured. I don’t tell myself that this is forever or that we’re fixed. I just tell myself that I’m a woman who needs to feel her man tonight. I tell myself that it’s okay not to fight every second. It’s okay to give in to what you want even if it might be destructive.
Our lips meet, and this time determination peppers my movements. My tongue swipes against his lower lip, teeth nibbling at the corner of his mouth. I shower my man with all the love I can’t bring myself to verbalize. He takes my mouth, just as determined to make a point. I’m not sure what either of us is bartering for, but it feels like the stakes are higher than they should be. I just want tonight. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Our kiss heats up into something not suitable for a public place—at least not suitable with a teenager walking around. I’m sliding myself over his lap, back and forth, creating the most delicious friction. My body warms from the effort, and I find quickly that Wyatt is enjoying it as much as I am. But it’s not enough.
“Upstairs,” he grunts through our kiss.
I nod and wait for him to lift me like he used to. From a sitting position straight to standing with little effort. But he doesn’t, instead he maneuvers my legs to the side and forces us to each bear our own weight as we move to stand. “Gettin’ old, babe.”
I don’t think of Wyatt as old, not ever, and definitely not while looking at him. But I don’t say anything because I’m no spring chicken anymore either. We stand, and he offers me his hand. I take it, and he gently tugs me toward the stairs.
“You haven’t seen our room yet,” he says with a husky tone. It’s laced with a mixture of desire and desperation that sends a thrill through me. Over his shoulder he shoots me a devilish wink. “You should see the place where I’m going to be sinking into your pussy every night.”
Instinctively, I grip his hand tighter and don’t let up until I can breathe again. A shudder runs through my entire body, leaving me unable to walk. When I don’t move, he eyes me over his shoulder again and says, “I want your pussy, babe. Not gonna wait for it.”
I flush and let out a shuddering breath.
Holy fuck, have I missed him.
CHAPTER 17
We make our way upstairs slowly and quietly, pausing every few moments to take a deep breath or squeeze each other’s hand. He’s concentrating hard on something. I can practically see his brain spinning from here, but I don’t comment. Whatever he’s working through is personal, and I don’t want to ruin the moment by making inappropriate comments or saying something that will upset him. It’s strange, though, the way he’s acting. It’s like he’s a nervous teen boy who’s never done this before. And to be fair, I didn’t even get that boy. By the time I met him, he’d already moved past that stage, so this is entirely new to me.<
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He pauses at the top of the stairs before leading me down the hall to our bedroom. My life feels like some kind of incongruent mash-up of pieces that don’t really belong together. It’s like there’s a very definite line between my life with Wyatt and my life without. I’ve been without him for so long that I think I forgot what it’s like to have him with me. I never want to be in that place again—where I don’t automatically know when he’s around. Where my body isn’t so used to his presence that it searches for him when he’s not with me. When the crushing loneliness suffocates me. When the only proof that I was ever loved is the sound of our kids talking. When the only thing I have to hold on to is the desperate hope that one day I’ll have him again, if even for just a few minutes.
By the time he opens the door and closes it behind us, I can barely stand to hold his hand. I’m charged, my body racing with need and an electricity I can’t ever remember feeling before. It’s like being on fire and submerged in ice at the same time.
He gives a small tug on my hand, but when I don’t move, he turns around and pulls me against him. We stand there for a long moment, our eyes fixed on each other. His eyes are clear, not glazed over and not red. His pupils aren’t dilated, and he’s steady-footed. My lower lip trembles as I take in the sight before me. Wyatt Strand has always been gorgeous, whether he was eighteen with a boyish charm and wide-eyed view of the world, or he was a little older and more mature. Now, though, he’s something else entirely. For the first time since I got back to town, I think I’m really looking at him. Not even the other day when he told me to look at him did I really see what he was talking about. I’ve spent the better part of two decades looking at him, seeing the man he is and the man he could be if only he tried.
But right now all I’m seeing is the man he’s become. Strong, determined, patient. This Wyatt is everything he ever said he was going to be all those years ago when he took me to bed for the first time.
“What are you seeing?” Crazy-beautiful green-blue eyes stare back at me with an assurance that melts every single fear I’ve ever had. This is us, and it’s right, and nothing can stop me from loving this man. Not even Wyatt himself.
“You.” I barely recognize the sound of my own voice. I clear my throat and suck in a shaky breath. Wyatt doesn’t ask for explanation, he just slides my shirt up over my head and tosses it aside.
“A white farmhouse with a wraparound porch,” he says, his hands traveling over my shoulders and sliding the straps of my bra down with them. His eyes don’t meet mine, and his words don’t make sense, but I push through the lust-filled fog to try to understand it anyway. Without his eyes, I can’t make anything out.
“Eat-in kitchen, two-car garage, nice neighborhood.”
“Baby,” I say on a plea. My brows pull together despite the heat on my cheeks from the tips of his fingers tracing the top of the cup of my bra. It’s old and worn, but he’s concentrating on the damn thing like it’s made of gold.
He ignores me and goes about dragging his fingers down to the waistband of my yoga pants. They’re not sexy in the least. I haven’t changed since my nap was interrupted this afternoon. Very slowly, almost tortuously so, he slides his hands inside and back around to cup my ass and pull me flush against his body. The near foot height difference between us gifts me with Wyatt’s thick, hard shaft being pressed up against my belly from beneath the confines of his jeans. My fingers find their way to the fly of his jeans, where I have to work extra hard to undo the button before sliding the zipper open.
My plans are destroyed by Wyatt slowly, so fucking slowly, pulling my yoga pants and panties down toward my feet. My body is curvier than the last time we were together, with my clothes not fitting the same way, but he manages to strip me down just fine. His movements are precise, thoughtful. I kick the yoga pants away as he holds me at arm’s length. My insecurities spring up out of nowhere, and I hate the way I look all of a sudden. My body didn’t bounce back after Piper the way it had with Zander. There are stretch marks along my lower belly and on my inner thighs. My ass is wider, and my breasts aren’t nearly as perky as they used to be.
“Been waiting years to get you up here,” he says and unclasps my bra. I let it fall to the floor mindlessly and stare up at him in confusion.
“Wy,” I say lowly in something between a demand and a question.
When he finally meets my eyes, I busy myself by pulling his jeans down, needing something to distract me from the heaviness in the room. Next I discard his boxers but can’t bring myself to break our eye contact long enough to catch sight of his exposed cock. Instead I place one hand on his hip to steady myself and fist him with the other, slowly pumping him. He gulps. A shudder runs through him as he continues to stare at me as if he’s trying to will me to understand.
“You wanted a farmhouse, baby. It’s yours,” he says without a hint of apprehension in his voice. A moan escapes him, his neck muscles flexing, before he can continue. “Promised our boy forever here. I fucking meant it.”
“You bought us a farmhouse?” My hand stills as my eyes fill with tears. I take a deep breath and focus on not letting the tears fall. This isn’t the man I left nearly three years ago. This is who Wyatt was before the drugs destroyed him.
“Fuck no, baby.” His hands find their way to my face. He holds my gaze on him, his voice so low and soft that it gives me butterflies. “I built you a farmhouse. Bought the land and built this place for when you came back to me. Knew it’d happen eventually.”
“You,” I say, unable to finish my sentence. I’m assaulted by the memory of finding Wyatt on the porch, out of his mind, and mumbling the same thing over and over again. I thought you’d come back to me. And at the time it made enough sense, but now it means so much more. He built this place for us—for our family.
“I spent every day I could working on it. Had some help, but told myself I had to earn you back. I was clean for five solid years before fucking up the night before you found me here. Last time I’d used was the day I started work on this place.” I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he doesn’t let me. He places his thumb over my lips and shakes his head. “Been waiting a long time to tell you this shit, so gimme some time to get it out, will ya?”
I nod my head.
“I was coming for you, whether Z was mine or not. Wanted to make sure shit was secure with the club first, but the second we took out Mancuso, I was coming for my family. You gotta know that once shit got clear, I didn’t care if Z was mine. He’s yours, and that means he’s mine, but fuck if I ain’t happy to see myself in that kid. Never knew anyone who looked like me before. You gave me that. Twice. Every ounce and every breath, baby.”
Tears stream down my face in waves. Almost fifteen years lost to youthful stupidity, snap judgments, and lies. But here my man is, bearing his soul, talking about being adopted in a way he rarely ever has, and letting me have it in ways my heart can’t keep up with.
“I love you.” I want to say something beautiful like he has, but I can’t get my mouth to work beyond that. He pulls me to him, claiming my mouth with his. Our lips slide over each other’s, neither of us trying to dominate. He’s gentle but needy. Everything about his kiss wakes me up. When we finally pull apart, it’s only because I can’t breath and my skin is on fire and I’m ready to explode. The apex of my thighs is damp, and my heart is pounding in my pussy, and he’s barely touched me. My hand is still on his cock, but instead of pumping, I’m teasing him with gentle touches and reveling in the velvet softness of his skin.
“Baby, I need you.”
His eyes hood at my statement, and his mouth works to get the words out, but he eventually says, “You’re my woman and I’m your man, and it’s time we start acting like it.”
With that, he bends me over the bed behind me, turning my body around and propping me up on hands and knees. I’ve barely looked around the room, my attention so focused on my man.
Oh, hell yes.
Finally.
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nbsp; Hands knead at my ass cheeks. One long finger trails along the outside of my wet pussy before dipping inside. I throw my head back, and gooseflesh breaks out all over my entire body. Wyatt withdraws his finger and then slides it back in so slowly that I mewl in response. He keeps the movement going, adding another finger and then another. Everything feels amazing and awful because it’s not enough. This is my man’s favorite position. He can see my brand from here, proof that I belong to him and only him. My body is so electrified by the memories of how wild he gets that a pathetic whine breaks from my chest.
“What was that, baby?” His voice sends a jolt through me, knowing he’s playing with me when all I really want is his beautiful, hard cock. My face heats as my temper rises. I’ve always hated being denied.
“Fuck me, Wyatt,” I say, almost shouting. Zander’s somewhere up here—I just don’t know which room he claimed—so I should try to be quiet, but that’s never been an option when I’m with my man.
A hard, fast, and not entirely unexpected hand barrels itself into my ass. I can feel myself starting to lose it, my orgasm building as he starts to lose his patience with my attitude. “Behave, woman.”
“Fuck you,” I shout, barely able to collect enough breath to muster the words.
His hand slaps at my ass again, this time with more force. I yelp, instinctively jumping away from him, but he grabs my hip and pulls me back. In an instant, his finger is gone and he’s impaling me in one smooth move, taking my breath away. My arms shake from the force of him inside me, my body is alight with a fiery desire that makes it hard to breathe as I take him in. One long arm reaches out, fingers trailing against my clit and up my belly, over my breasts, before finally curving up and wrapping around my shoulder. He hovers over my back, never letting us break our connection. Long hair tickles my back. Hot breath covers my skin. He’s caging me in, and it’s everything I’ve been waiting for. A soft kiss between my shoulder blades—on the ink that forms his name—is a silent testament to who we are.
