by Elise Faber
So, he began to move, mixing the new and old, the learning and remembering, the knowing and discovering, and he found a rhythm that had her matching his movements, meeting his thrusts. She writhed beneath him, bucking as her fingers clung tight, her nails digging into his shoulders, her hips pressing to his, over and over and over again.
And then she fractured, her eyes slamming shut, tossing her head back, her body stilling as her pussy clenched tight around him.
He let the pulses tug him over the edge, stroking into her as his orgasm swelled up and sucked him under.
He came to, somehow on his side, Fanny tucked against him.
They didn’t say anything for long moments, didn’t speak as their breathing slowed, as the sweat cooled on their bodies, and he pulled the blankets up and over them.
She was so still and quiet, that she could have been asleep.
And yet, he knew she wasn’t.
“I love you,” she said softly, “just in case you thought it was in the heat of the moment.”
Brandon’s mouth turned up, and he kissed the top of her head. “Good,” he murmured. “Now”—he let his voice raise in volume—“should I cook you dinner?”
Her laughter was the best sound on the planet.
He soaked it in . . . and then he went downstairs and cooked his woman dinner.
Chapter Seventeen
Fanny
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Now they’re trying to lose money.”
“I know,” Charlie said. “Isn’t it great?”
She giggled like a loon, as she often did with this man. They’d grabbed drinks and food a couple of times since their dinner and now had a standing friend date on Wednesday nights. Scarlett was jealous and often crashed their time together, but seeing as she couldn’t stand the terrible reality show they were currently bingeing, she’d skipped that night.
The reality show in question followed a bunch of sexy people who liked to bone with no strings attached but couldn’t because doing so meant they would lose out on the grand prize at the end.
“I’ve said it once”—she picked up her wineglass—“and I’ll say it again. If I were them, stuck at a luxury resort for several weeks, with all the free booze and drinks I could get, I’d be boning left and right.”
Charlie cackled as he clinked his glass to hers. “Damn right, you would,” he said, then pointed at the screen. “Oh no, here they go.”
She smirked.
Because damn right, they did.
They went. They kissed and cuddled and lost a boatload of money. It was glorious.
Fan and Charlie kept up their commentary through one episode and into the next, during which Brandon came over to her place—with a key she’d given him because . . . not looking back. He took one look at both of them on the couch then the TV and shook his head. Then he picked up both of their glasses, went into the kitchen, and refilled them.
Things had been a little testy between him and Charlie at first—more from Brandon’s side than Charlie’s, since the latter didn’t know about the Hallway Incident. But as she was learning about Charlie, he’d quickly disarmed Brandon, and now the two were casual friends.
She’d take it.
She liked Charlie, and things would have been really awkward if Brandon had gone all He-man protective alpha on her.
But then again, he wouldn’t do that.
Because Brandon was Brandon.
He cared about her and what made her happy. Charlie being her reality TV show watching buddy made her happy. Along with the stories he told her while they were out to drinks or dinner, even though those drinks and dinner sometimes took Fan away from Brandon (sometimes Bran tagged along, and sometimes he didn’t).
When she’d asked Brandon if he had an issue with her being friends with Charlie—not that she would stop, because it was her freaking life (though she could be friends in a way that made Bran more comfortable, if necessary)—he’d simply asked if Charlie made her happy. She’d nodded. Then he’d smiled, kissed her cheek, and told her to have fun.
Though it should be noted that before she’d left, he’d pulled her close, kissed her within an inch of her life, then murmured in her ear, “No hallways.”
The murmur was more order than not.
But anyway.
Now she and Charlie were close, and she got to see more of Scarlett when she wasn’t traveling with the team, by benefit of her coming over to hang with Fan and her brother, a la two birds one stone.
Brandon plunked the glasses on the table just as she and Charlie squealed.
“They’re not going to have anything left,” Charlie exclaimed, picking up the glass and taking a large sip.
“No, they’re not.” She grinned at him and then sipped before turning to Brandon. “Thank you.”
A tug of her hair before he disappeared back into the kitchen.
She was firmly in Reality Show Fog when he returned, a beer in hand, and slid next to her on the couch, his arm coming around her shoulders. He kissed her temple, and she snuggled in to watch, perfectly content in Brandon’s arms.
It wasn’t until later that she realized she’d fallen asleep.
The show was paused on the TV. She was tucked on the couch, a blanket around her, and when she turned her head, she could see Brandon and Charlie talking in the hall.
“Thanks for being cool with this,” Charlie was saying quietly. “She’s . . . incredible, but I want you to know that I wouldn’t overstep, and neither would she. We just like hanging out, and she’s made it clear that we’re friends and nothing more.”
Brandon nodded. “I know. I trust her.” A beat. “Maybe not you, but I trust her.”
Charlie smiled wolfishly. “I get it. A woman like that makes a man take notice, but I promise that I’ll respect the boundaries she laid out. Friends. Nothing more.”
Brandon nodded again, and if she hadn’t had so much wine, and hadn’t been up so early at clinics that morning, and wasn’t so warm and cozy under the blankets on the couch, she would have gotten up and told the both of them what she thought about them discussing her like she wasn’t in the room.
Or the next room, anyway.
But she was tired, and a little buzzed, and more than a little snuggly. So she didn’t get up and tell them off. Instead, she let her eyes close again, burrowed into the couch, and drifted off.
She was exhausted and slightly drunk and cozy.
She still distantly heard Charlie leave and even more distantly felt Brandon pick her up off the couch and carry her upstairs, tucking her under the covers before slipping in beside her.
“How much money did they lose?” she murmured, burrowing into all of his snuggliness.
A beat, his fingers drifting through her hair. “All of it.”
She smiled, pressed her lips to his throat, and was tugged completely under.
They had gone to the movies. They had stayed in and cooked dinner. Brandon had waited for her after clinics at the rink, and she stayed at his place.
They had spent ten years apart, and yet, over the last month, it felt like no time had passed at all.
And now, she was looking forward to using the gift certificate he had given her, only instead of using it by herself as she’d thought she might when she’d first opened that envelope, he was by her side.
As they walked through the space where she once dreamed her wedding would be held.
The sun was shining, the wind was floating through the vines. Brandon held her hand, and they both had taken on a quiet that was somehow both hopeful and tense, as though they were both expecting the past to come up, dig its claws into them, and drag them both under once again.
But as they flowed through the space, the sun still warm, the wind still gently blowing, Fanny found herself beginning to relax.
The past was just that. Past.
And she was done letting it have a hold on her.
So, she just kept taking steps forward, continued feeling the sun, continued feeling
the wind, continued feeling Brandon holding her, and . . . she let go.
“I remember visiting this place,” she murmured, holding Brandon’s fingers a little tighter. “I remember thinking that we’d be so happy here. I remember thinking this would be the start of us. And in a way, it was.”
Brandon turned to face her, his eyes full of old pain and she felt an answering echo in herself.
But that wasn’t why she’d brought it up. That wasn’t why he’d bought her the certificate for this place. They weren’t trying to revisit old pain, to drive their fingers into the open wounds that were still healing. They weren’t even trying to slap a Band-Aid on to those lesions, trying to stitch them up or cover them over.
Instead, they were trying to live.
Trying to face those hurts and move on.
“I was so convinced it was our turn to have our happiness,” she whispered, “and I was broken when it didn’t work out.”
His jaw clenched and he dropped her hand, fisting both at his side. “I will never, fucking ever, forgive myself for hurting you that way. The first time was bad enough, but the second time, with Angela, with all those months you spent trying to get me to remember—”
“I will never regret fighting for you,” she said, taking his hands and unfurling them. “Just like I would never, ever begrudge you your happiness, even though it didn’t include me. Yes, I was broken. Yes, I had to start over. But I’m not broken today. I’m not living half a life. I have friends and a job. I have a career I love, and . . . I have you, which is the freaking icing on the cake, because I never thought we’d be here again.” She smiled. “I never thought I’d be open to it, vulnerable to all I feel, if I’m being honest.”
“Fan,” he whispered, reaching up and swiping a hand over her cheek, capturing a tear on his thumb. “I don’t want to hurt you—”
“I know,” she said. “That’s what always made it so hard before. You were still so damned nice, even when you didn’t feel the same for me. Always polite, even though I was there all the time, and you had to want to get rid of the pesky girl who kept making you look at photo albums and listen to songs, hoping it would spark something.” She slid a little closer. “But you not wanting to hurt me is also what makes that risk bearable today. I could lose you in an instant. I could die tomorrow and leave you. We have this one life, and I’m done living behind protective walls, just because I might not come out unscathed if I step beyond them.”
He slipped his fingers into her hair, trailed them down her throat, playing with the strap of her dress, his rough callouses on the skin of her shoulder making her lips part on a sigh, her body shift even closer.
“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he murmured, bending his head and inhaling deeply, as though he wanted to imprint her scent on to his soul.
“You were you,” she said. “And that’s enough.”
His head came up so quickly that she jumped, but she didn’t have a chance to do more than meet his blazing eyes before his fingers had wrapped around her wrist and he was tugging her forward.
“What—”
He scooped her up when she stumbled, pushing through the vines and walking unerringly in the opposite direction from the way they’d come.
“Brandon?” she asked.
He kept walking.
“What are you doing?”
His gaze met hers for a heartbeat, but that short beat of time was enough to have her thighs pressing together, desire a heavy wave of need flowing over her skin, taking the place of the sun, of the wind. “When we came here to scout wedding sights, I did some scouting of my own.”
He pushed through a final row of vines, and she gasped at the sight in front of them.
A deep blue pond, grass—what would have been brown just a week ago, having turned green and lush from an unusual rainstorm just a few days before—surrounding its edges. Large, old growth oaks dotted the space, growing very close together near the water, as though they needed to soak in as much as they could—and they probably did, considering how often the area was in and out of droughts.
This place was California’s version of a mirage, tall weeds with small, yellow flowers in the distance, the wind just strong enough to keep the bugs away, the pond looking even more blue from the sky reflected above.
Even the birdsong was mellow, just soft enough to create a beautiful background melody.
It was . . . peace.
It was perfect.
This was where she would like to get married. If she were choosing a spot as the woman she was now, not worrying about guest lists and a dance floor and a space for a DJ, this would be it.
She and Brandon. The sun shining overhead. Their future on the breeze, in the birdsong, in the warmth of the air.
But while she was reveling in the peace, in the fact that this man had known her so well then, knew her just as well now, Brandon had other ideas.
“I’d planned on stealing you away during the reception,” he murmured, striding down the hill. “I’d planned on stashing a basket here”—he set her down gently, holding her while she found her balance, then reached between two of the trees to retrieve a wicker container—“and a blanket here.” He reached up, and she saw what she’d missed before, the blue plaid material hanging from the branch. “I’d planned on starting our wedding night under the stars and the moonlight, with promises of bringing them both to you, if you only asked.”
Love.
It could be a devastating feeling, could bring someone to their knees, destroy them and yank the foundation of their being out from beneath them.
Or it could be this.
Filling her up until she felt like she was floating, until the old cracks were sealed, until she was herself and . . . more.
“So, give it to me,” she breathed, stepping toward him. “Give me every part of you, and more. Give me the moon and the sun and the stars in the sky and give me you.”
One second, he was standing there, the blanket in his arms, the basket at his feet.
The next she was in his arms, the blanket on the ground, his mouth descending. “It’s already yours.”
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t the frenzy of their first time, Fanny feeling like she was out of control, like she needed to have him right then. Oh yeah, she wanted him. Oh yeah, she was wet and aching. But this was more; this meant more. This was the beginning, their future. The sun, the moon, and the stars.
He laid her onto the blanket, his weight following her down.
“I love you so fucking much,” he breathed in her ear, the hot words sliding over her skin, dipping down between her thighs. Then he shifted slightly, his front to her side as he dragged his mouth down her throat, along her collarbone, nudging the straps of her dress to the side, trapping her arms at her sides. A moment later, his hand was beneath her, sliding up her back and finding the tag of her zipper. He slid it down.
Naked skin exposed on a warm fall day.
He tugged the material of her dress down slowly, exposing the tops of her breasts. Lower still, catching on the tips of her hardened nipples.
Her lips parted on a breath, and she inhaled sharply, the pleasure arrowing straight for her pussy. She knew she was wet. God, she’d been plenty wet with Brandon over the last month, but in this moment, she didn’t think she’d ever been wetter. She could actually feel the moisture of her arousal soaking through her underwear, dripping down her thighs, making her thighs slick as they slid across one another.
Hot breath on her skin, fingers flicking open her bra, parting the material.
Lips circling, descending, closing in, and then he was sucking her nipple deeply into his mouth, his groan rumbling through her flesh, her moan loud and mixing with his.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, when he released her, drifting over to her other breast.
More sucking, more pleasure coiling, more damp heat between her legs.
“Bran,” she urged, reaching up and grabbing his shoulders, trying to
bring him more on top of her. He stayed at her side, his hands sliding up and down her body, his mouth on her breasts, and then inching slowly.
Only inching.
Slow. So damned slow.
When all she wanted was him in her.
But no matter how hard she pulled, he didn’t speed up, didn’t shift over her.
Instead, he continued with that inching, tugging her dress down, sweeping it off her legs. Her panties followed suit, and then she was naked beneath a huge oak tree, sprawled on a blanket, with Brandon worshiping her until she was a shaking, desperate heap of a woman.
He inched over her stomach, kissing along the smattering of freckles there, nipped her hips, and finally crawled over her, pressing her legs wide as he dipped his head and got to work.
Slow and steady, so fucking slow.
But good. Glorious even. Gentle licks, unhurried strokes. Every single one ratcheting her up, tightening every muscle, her desire a fire through her veins.
And then just as slowly, she came apart at the seams.
The pleasure slid outward, starting at her center, flooding her torso, her arms, her legs. It spread inexorably forward, shooting out her fingertips and toes, crawling up her neck, across her face, and she would be shocked to find that her hair wasn’t on fire.
Maybe she might bother to check, if she could lift an arm.
Brandon stayed between her thighs, gentling her with those slow licks, the delicate circles, and when she expected him to get naked and climb on her, to thrust deep and fast and furious, he stayed slow and gentle, and incrementally ramped her arousal again, until her breaths came in rapid pulses, sweat coated her body. She’d lost her capacity for words, could only make pleading sounds.
But then—finally—he stripped off his clothes.
She wanted to worship him like he’d paid homage to her body, but she didn’t have time or energy to bring voice to that request, before he was rising over her and sliding home anyway.
Unhurried strokes, reverent touches.
Crawling toward the precipice, not rushing, easing up and up and—
She almost didn’t want it to come, wanted to stay like this with Brandon forever, and he seemed to feel the same, lingering on the edge for what seemed like an eternity. But eventually, they got too close, and her release almost surprised her, seeming to climb up the cliffside and drag her down, rather than her plummeting over the edge.
