by Maisey Yates
“I’m not sure I can anymore,” she said, gasping as he lifted her slightly before setting her down on the countertop, her legs still locked around him, but forced lower now, around his hips, bringing her into contact with the hardest, most masculine part of him.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t hold back.”
“I think you’re ruining me,” she whispered.
“For other men?” he asked, his smile curving upward a little more.
For everything.
But she didn’t say that last part out loud. She wasn’t sure she could talk now, even if she wanted to. Not when she was so empty and aching with need for him. Not when she thought she was going to die if she didn’t have him right now.
Fortunately, they were on the same page.
He reached down, grabbing the hem of her top and tugging it over her head as she started to work the buttons on his shirt.
She didn’t push it off his shoulders, she just left it open, running her hands over his skin, luxuriating in the feel of him beneath her fingertips.
She leaned back, looking at his perfectly cut body, at the lines those low-slung jeans put on display.
He leaned forward, unbuttoning her jeans and drawing the zipper down slowly. Then he pushed his hand down beneath the waistband of her panties, sliding his fingers over where she was wet and ready for him.
She clung to his shoulders, locking her heels more tightly around his back.
“Don’t tease me,” she said.
“Oh, baby, I’m going to tease you till you beg,” he said, the coarse promise whispered over her lips.
He slipped his finger deep inside her, stroking her with his thumb. She arched her back, her eyes closed tight, her heart fluttering around in her chest like a caged bird as he pushed a second finger inside of her, working them in and out slowly.
She shuddered, pleasure coursing through her as each stroke of his thumb over her clit brought her closer and closer to the brink. Then, abruptly, he pulled away. She let out a harsh groan as he abandoned her pleasure, then a shocked squeak as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and jeans, pulling both down her legs as he knelt in front of her, her thighs parted wide.
He pulled her forward, looping her legs over his shoulders as he leaned in, kissing her inner thigh, making eye contact with her as he did.
“Ace...”
“You can still talk,” he said, kissing her again, closer to the source of her desire for him. “That’s no good. I’ve gotta make you a lot more mindless than that.”
He leaned in, sliding his tongue over her sensitized flesh before adding his fingers back into the mix, pleasuring her with his hands and his tongue, pushing her up over the edge. He had one hand planted firmly on her lower back, holding her in place so that she couldn’t escape, while the other toyed with her.
He drew it out for as long as possible, taking her just to the edge before pulling her back and pushing her there again. Finally, with one long stroke of his tongue he sent her over. Wave after wave of pleasure claimed her, wrapped its fingers around her throat and squeezed tightly, leaving her gasping for air, leaving her spent and utterly breathless.
Then he rose up on his feet, positioning himself between her legs as he undid his belt, then slowly unzipped his jeans. She reached forward, tugging his underwear down, freeing his erection, and locking her legs around his back again, urging him inside her.
He didn’t need a lot of encouragement.
He thrust home in one smooth motion. She should be replete from the climax he’d already given her. But still, she was ready for more. It didn’t seem possible. She shouldn’t be ready for anything but sleep. But, with Ace, it turned out she always wanted more. It turned out she was insatiable.
She clung to him, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, which was open and still mostly on. She liked that. Liked that he hadn’t bothered to get undressed entirely. That he was still wearing his jeans. That there had been too much urgency for either of them to worry about ridding him of his clothes completely.
She looked up at him, pressing her hand to his cheek, tracing the square line of his jaw. She loved the expression he had on his face. One of absolute concentration. He looked like a conqueror and a supplicant, rolled into one.
She couldn’t speak now if she wanted to. She was completely lost in this. Lost in him. She could do nothing but feel. Not just physically. Emotions invaded her, expanding in her chest, working their way deep into her soul. This was more than she had wanted it to be. From the beginning it had been more than she wanted.
She had wanted her job, not an attraction.
She had wanted sex, not a baby.
She had wanted help, not a husband.
She had wanted a connection, not love.
But no matter what she had started out wanting, it didn’t matter in the end. Because she had everything that had not been on the list.
Baby. Future husband.
And as she watched his face, as she was filled by him, in every way, she had to admit to herself that she had fallen in love with him.
She didn’t want it. Any more than she had wanted anything else. It was a recipe for nothing but pain. He had already told her he didn’t want love. He was never going to give it. She imagined he didn’t think he wanted to receive it. But she felt it. An overflowing well of it right now, joining the pleasure that was building inside of her, threatening to burst out of her whether she wanted it to or not.
She couldn’t contain all of it. There was no way. It was too complete, too devastating.
He rolled his hips forward, making contact with that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. And for a moment, the blinding, white-hot pleasure forced her mind blank. She couldn’t worry about the future. Couldn’t worry about her feelings. He increased his tempo, his own control starting to fray. She could feel it. In the trembling of his muscles, in the tight hold he had on her hips.
“Yes,” she said, a whispered, urgent prayer for him to keep going. For him to lose himself as she was. For him to be as completely lost as she was. So she wouldn’t be alone.
And he obeyed.
On a hoarse growl he gave in completely, his capitulation securing her own.
She clung to him as he shook, as his pleasure became her own, as their release poured through both of them. It didn’t feel like it was coming inside of her. Instead, it felt like they were both standing in the middle of a storm, clinging to each other as they were battered from all sides.
And when it cleared, when everything around them was still again, she was left with a kind of sick, horrifying certainty.
She loved him. But no matter how deeply, no matter how strongly she loved him, he wouldn’t love her back.
Along with that was another certainty. If she wanted to keep him, she could never tell him. If she wanted this to last, she would have to keep her feelings to herself.
She looked up at him, the impact of his gaze hitting her like a blow.
“What?” he asked, his voice husky, his touch on her cheek gentle.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
OVER THE NEXT few weeks they settled into a routine. Something Ace would have said was impossible only a few months ago. That he would find himself happily coexisting with a woman. Headed toward holy matrimony and fatherhood and all those things he had been steadfastly avoiding for so many years.
He hadn’t been with the same woman more than twice since his ex-wife, and here he was, having Sierra every night, multiple times a night, and not feeling like he would ever get enough of her.
But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t the only thing.
It was comfortable to have her around. To have her soft touches slowly invading his home.
&
nbsp; She had brought a few of those things from her shopping spree over to his place, bringing some of her taste in and mingling it with his. Well, if you could call what he’d had in his house his taste. It really had been an outward symbol of the apathy and carelessness he’d treated his life with.
Much like his house, he’d been a functioning structure with not much more to it. Now, there was Sierra. And she had brought wall art, doilies and impending fatherhood in his life. She had brought some measure of happiness and comfort.
But those things had brought along something else. With doilies came a strange sense of unease. The feeling that he was standing beneath a guillotine that could drop at any moment.
So, that was fun.
But he felt like he more or less had the guillotine propped up with a broom handle. Sure, it was there, but he and the madame had an agreement of some kind. Sierra was going to marry him. They had commitment. They did not have ridiculous things like emotions involved.
Right. You have no emotions about any of this.
Well, he did. But not unstable ones.
He and Sierra had an arrangement. A commitment. That was the broom handle. Potentially breakable, he was aware. But better than nothing.
Right now, he was outside working with the horses, getting prepared for work later. They would ride over together. That had become part of the routine. It was downright domestic, and he didn’t even mind. If anything, he relished it.
That thought jolted him a little bit as he straightened, wiping his forehead and setting his pitchfork to the side. The stalls were clean now, and if he played his cards right he would have time for a shower and for some quality naked time with Sierra.
It was no mystery why he relished that.
He looked up, just in time to see Sierra walking toward the barn, a wide grin on her face and a basket in her hand. She was even bouncing a little bit.
“What brings you out here?”
“The horses,” she said, winking at him.
“Right. I know I rate way down the list.”
“Way down.”
“What’s in the basket?”
Her cheeks turned pink, her smile turning sheepish. “Food.”
“Food?”
“Yes,” she said, looking determined. “Food that I made.”
“You make food?”
“I did! I mean, you can hold your praise in reserve. It’s turkey and cheese sandwiches and a very basic pasta salad. But that is possibly the most food assembly I’ve ever done in my life.”
“And you brought it out here?”
“Yes. I thought you might want to have a picnic.”
For some reason, that very simple offer made his stomach wrench up tight. He didn’t know why. Except that picnic lunches were a gesture that went somewhere beyond domesticity. There was sharing a practical meal together, and then there was... Well, he didn’t even know what this was.
“I’m kind of sweaty,” he said.
Her face fell a little. “Does that mean you can’t eat a sandwich?”
He shook his head. “No, I can eat a sandwich.”
He reached out and took hold of the basket, setting it on top of one of the work tables in the barn. He opened it up and examined the contents before taking out one of the sandwiches and unwrapping it.
“I thought we might actually sit down and eat them.”
He looked at her, the sandwich poised in front of his mouth. “We can do that.”
He didn’t want to. And at the moment he couldn’t exactly examine why. Except that he hadn’t agreed to a picnic. They didn’t really have time. He had some work to finish, and then there was that shower he wanted. And the sex.
He had a feeling that saying he didn’t want to have a picnic because he wanted sex wouldn’t go over well.
She shifted, and he noticed that she had a little checkered blanket under her arm. Red checkers. Like a component to a picnic that came straight out of a dream. And for some reason, that blanket felt like a threat. To what they were establishing. To what he had planned.
“Look, Sierra, I appreciate this, but I don’t really have time. You know, for a full sit-down thing.” You asshole, what are you doing?
Her face fell even more and his stomach twisted tighter.
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“There’s just a lot going on out here. I’m thrilled about the sandwich. And thank you.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t go acting upset,” he said, ready to cut out his own tongue as soon as the words exited his mouth. He doubted there was anything worse he could possibly have said.
“Oh,” she said, her tone dry. “Sorry. I guess even when I’m upset I shouldn’t act upset?”
“Look, we can sit down and have a damn picnic if it means that much to you.”
“It doesn’t. Not anymore.” She snatched the basket back and turned on her heel, walking quickly out of the barn.
Annoyance spiked and he walked after her. “Sierra,” he said. “I told you we could have the picnic.”
“But you don’t want to!” she returned, her cheeks flushed red. “And if you don’t want to then there isn’t any point.”
“I can’t read your mind,” he said, exasperated. “I didn’t realize it was going to be an issue.”
“You didn’t realize turning down my picnic lunch as I stood before you with a blanket and the only sandwiches I’ve ever made in my life would be an issue? How’s the view right now?”
“What?”
“Your head is shoved so far up your ass I wondered if you could see anything.”
He scowled. “I have a schedule. This didn’t fit. I said I’d make it work and now you’re making a federal issue out of it.”
“Because you did! You’re acting like I’m inconvenient.” She started to storm away again and again he followed her.
“Sierra, you can’t go acting like this all the time.”
Her hands locked down at her sides, her shoulders shaking. “Gah!” She whirled around. “All the time? Are you kidding me? I asked you for a freaking picnic, not a...a...tour of Europe. Did you think I was just going to slip quietly into your life and not change anything?”
“Lace. Curtains,” he said.
“Oh, woo. I got to put curtains in your living room. I’m not going to be your Stepford Wife, here to provide you with some Leave it To Beaver life plus blow jobs. I want things, too. And you said you wanted to share with me, but now I wonder if that was really true.”
“Because I didn’t immediately jump on board with having a picnic? That’s a bit dramatic.”
Dimly, he realized he’d been a jerk, and now it was spiraling out of control. That he should back down and apologize. But he didn’t want to.
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you just call me dramatic?”
“I don’t think I stuttered.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
She strode back toward the house, and he followed. She stomped angrily up the steps into the house, opening the door and slamming it behind her, and he followed her every movement, stomp for stomp.
When he went into the house, she was standing in the entry, her arms crossed over her chest, her glare evil. “Oh, so you decided to follow me?”
“Yeah, I had to make sure you didn’t do anything crazy. Like take your lace curtains and run off.”
“Where would I go? I don’t have anywhere to run off to.”
He advanced on her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her up against his chest, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forcing her to meet his gaze. “You don’t need anywhere else to go.”
He kissed her then. Hot and hard.
She tasted like anger and sadness, and he knew that he was respon
sible for both. He wasn’t even her husband yet he was already messing things up.
She was right, maybe to a degree he had imagined she did just that in his life in all of the spaces that were empty, without rearranging any that already felt full.
But that was a damned selfish perspective on relationships.
Do you know how to have any other kind of perspective on a relationship?
Maybe not anymore. A long time ago. A lifetime ago. Before his first marriage, before his first child and the loss of that child, he cared about other people first. He had loved people more than he’d loved himself.
And look where that got you.
Well, his way of doing things now wasn’t getting anywhere better. Except that she was kissing him back. Fiercely. Like she was all out of words and had to fight him with her body.
She pushed him backward, pressing him up against the wall, her breasts flush against his chest. She placed her fingers through his hair, tugging hard as she parted her lips and slid her tongue over his. Then she nipped his bottom lip, not gently at all.
He grabbed hold of her hair, taking her head back. “Are you trying to punish me?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice low.
“I have to tell you, I don’t feel very chastised.”
She rolled her hips forward, sending a shot of lightning through his body. “You would if I walked away.”
“But we both know you can’t.”
Something flashed through her eyes—fear, indecision. “I could,” she said.
“You don’t want to.”
“Yeah, well, what I want doesn’t always work out, does it?”
“Is this about the picnic again?”
“Everything,” she said.
That word, so angry, so filled with pain, touched something wrong inside of him. He reversed their positions, pressing her against the wall, kissing her as he pushed the hem of her dress upward, but he never got over her hips. “Everything? Now you regret everything? Just the other day you were telling me how happy I make you,” he said, the words biting.
“Well, it’s a new day.”
