Unbreak My Heart (Rough Riders Legacy #1)(87)

“Yes.”

“Why tell me then?”

“If you would’ve bailed after you heard me say it then I would’ve blamed it on drunk talk. But I heard you say it back to me. I didn’t dream that, right?”

“You didn’t dream it. And I didn’t say it back to you as if we were just exchanging compliments. I said it back to you because I f*cking mean it, Sierra. I love you.”

Her eyes shone with tears and that was so not like her. “Boone.”

I dropped my hand from her face and growled, “Come here.”

Then her mouth was on mine.

We kissed slowly. Steadily. Softly. In between the drugging kisses, we whispered lover’s confessions and promises of devotion.

It ranked right up there as one of the best moments of my life.

I eventually rolled Sierra onto her back. I rested my forehead to hers. “I need you like this. Looking in your eyes as I tell you how much I love you.”

She murmured, “Yes.”

Things started out with tender intentions—at least on my part. I loved having her hands mapping my shoulders and chest and hips as I drove in and out of her. I loved the sensual glide of her lips and her tongue in my mouth and on my throat. I loved that a leisurely roll of my pelvis as I thrust into her wet heat caused her to arch into me, mashing her soft breasts against my chest. I loved the sting of her nails digging into my ass, sent chills up my spine, down my legs and across my arms. I loved how the sound of my voice in her ear made her moan. I loved when she told me the time for sweet lovin’ was over and demanded that I f*ck her until she screamed.

Our bodies were damp with sweat from the friction of hot skin on hot skin. We were breathing hard, kissing messily, pushing to reach that pinnacle where the intensity became throbbing, pulsing release.

Sierra hit that peak first. She didn’t scream, but it was damn close.

I watched her as she came. Seeing her get off did it for me every f*cking time. Especially when her spasming sex clenched around my cock as I rocked against her to prolong her orgasm. I didn’t have a f*cking prayer of not coming like a damn geyser.

I didn’t stay lost in the post-orgasm white noise for long. Sierra slapped my ass hard and said, “I love you, but you’re heavy, we’re sticky, and I’m hungry.”

I pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth before I eased out of her and pushed back onto my knees. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tried to catch my breath and my balance.

It didn’t surprise me that Sierra already knew how to work I love you into casual conversation. Would it stop feeling so important if I love you became a toss-away phrase?

Right now it seemed monumental because I’d never said that to anyone before. Not even in jest.

Where was the line between being stingy with saying the words so they didn’t lose impact and overusing them?

Overthinking this much?

Sierra straddled my lap. “No brooding allowed or I will tickle you. Because I know all of your ticklish spots now, West.”

I laughed. “You do?”

She ran her fingers down the front of my throat as if she wanted to feel my joy. “You laugh so much more than you used to. You smile more too.”

“I have a lot more things to be happy about in my life now, Sierra.”

“That makes me happy.” She outlined my lips with the tip of her tongue. “But I still think I oughta prove I know where all your ticklish spots are.”





After lunch on Monday afternoon I bit the bullet and started a pros and cons list of taking the PCE job, because I would see Phyllis at the weekly meeting the following night, when Nikki knocked.

“You have a drop-in guest. No, it’s not Sergeant West.”

The man loved his military title. I did too. “He or she?”

“She. Her name is Mrs. Nash. That’s all the info she’d give me.”

“Send her back, please.”

I’d cleaned my hands with antibacterial gel and downed four aspirin, suspecting I’d have a screaming headache by the end of the day.

A woman who looked to be in her seventies entered my office.

I said, “Come in and have a seat.” She perched on the front edge of the chair, reminding me of how regally Mia’s grandmother positioned herself in The Princess Diaries. “I feel like we’ve met.”

“We have. At your mother’s luncheon. I’m Mrs. Nash.”

“Well, Mrs. Nash, what can I do for you?”

“You can listen, for starters.” She kept her hands folded in her lap, but her eyes nearly shot flames from beneath her glasses. “I overheard your conversation at the end of the luncheon. And I have to say, it angered me. Very much. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that you are every bit as snobby and judgmental as you accused the luncheon attendees of being.”

I bristled and my polite veneer started chipping off. “What exactly did I say that was so offensive?”

Her mouth tightened. “You all but said that a country club was the last place you’d ever look for the type of women you needed as business mentors. Then you went on to point out that most of the women considered marrying well their greatest accomplishment. And these pearl clutchers had nothing useful to offer young women your age. That we were dinosaurs holding onto a one-dimensional and superficial way of life. But if you ever needed advice on the proper way to pour tea, or tableware arrangement, or a list of caterers, florists and dog walkers, you’d keep the group in mind.”