Archer's Voice(61)

He grinned, his chest rising and falling in a silent chuckle. For a portion of a second, I wished desperately that I could hear that chuckle–I'd bet it was deep and throaty–a beautiful sound. But almost as quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it. I wanted him just as he was. I'd never hear his chuckle, but that was okay. I had his heart, and his thoughts, and him. And it was more than enough. In fact, it was everything.

I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him and then pulled back and said, Come take a shower with me.

He smiled and followed behind me to the bathroom where I quickly pinned my hair up, and then turned the water on to hot and climbed in.

Archer followed behind me and we took turns washing each other's bodies. He touched me tenderly, almost reverently, as he rubbed body wash over my skin. He cleaned every part of me, even between my toes as I giggled and pulled them away, signing, Too ticklish!

He grinned and stood up and kissed me hard on the mouth, and I grabbed the body wash from him and washed him from shoulders to toes as well, spending an extra bit of time on his muscular ass–but that was purely selfish. He had an exceptional ass.

When the water started cooling, we rinsed off one final time and stepped out, drying each other off.

I blew the candles out and then we climbed under the covers together, naked. Archer pulled me into him as I rested my head on his chest, drawing lazy circles on his skin with my pointer finger.

Outside, the rain was falling down gently now, and the moonlight over the lake shined in, casting just enough light that I could see Archer's hands when he raised them and said, You're my everything, Bree.

I leaned up and looked at his face in the semi-darkness. How was it that he looked happy and sad at the same time? "You're mine too, Archer," I said. "Everything."

"And now," I said sleepily, drifting toward sleep, "when a thunderstorm comes, I'll think of you, not anything other than you."





CHAPTER 22


Bree



Over the next week we fell into an easy routine, so wrapped up in each other that I could barely wait to get off work, practically racing home to shower and grab Phoebe before heading straight to Archer's house. The smile that he greeted me with each day made me feel treasured as I ran into his arms, feeling in my head and my heart that I was finally home.

Not the place, but his arms. Archer's arms were my home–the only place I wanted to be, the place where I felt safe. The place where I felt loved.

We made love everywhere, spending long nights exploring each other's bodies and learning everything about what brought pleasure to the other. And just like Archer, he became a master in the fine art of lovemaking–leaving me languid and drugged with pleasure at the end of every interlude. Not only did he know how to make me wild with desire with his hands and his tongue and his impressive male parts, but he knew that when he scratched the backs of my knees with his short fingernails, I would purr like a cat, and that it relaxed me entirely when he ran his fingers through my hair. It was as if my body was his instrument and he learned to play it so perfectly that the melody vibrated within my very soul. Not only because of the pleasure he brought, but because he cared so much to know every little thing about me.

One day, he put a bowl of potato chips out while I was preparing us lunch and as I snacked on them, I noticed that they were all the folded ones that I loved, but usually had to hunt for.

I looked down at the chips and then up at Archer, confused. "All these chips… they're all folded," I said, thinking I sounded crazy.

Aren't those the ones you like?

I nodded slowly, realizing that he had gone through several bags of chips to collect the ones I liked the best. And realizing that he had noticed that small fact about me at all, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But that was just Archer. He wanted to please me, and he'd do anything in that effort.

Sometimes we would be doing something on his property when I would look over at him and see him looking at me with that lazy look on his face that meant that he was thinking about what he wanted to do to me in that moment, and I would become almost instantly wet and needy, my nipples pebbling beneath his silent stare.

And then he would either pick me up and carry me to his bed, or if we were so overcome, he would take me right where we were–on a blanket on the grass, the bright sunlight shining above us, or in the two-person hammock, or on the sandy shore of the lake.

After just such a session, as my body was still quivering with the orgasm he had just given me, I whispered breathlessly, "I dreamed this, Archer. I dreamed of you and me–just like this."

His eyes burned down into mine, and he leaned up and studied me for long minutes before he leaned down and kissed me so tenderly that I thought my heart would break.

I rolled him over in the wet sand, grinning against his mouth as he smiled too. And then we both stopped laughing as I lay my head on his chest and lived right there in that moment, thankful for the air in my lungs and the sunshine on my back, and the beautiful man in my arms. And his hands made letters on my skin and after a few minutes, I realized that he was spelling, My Bree… My Bree… again and again and again.

The weather was cool now and so after a little bit, we ran inside laughing and shivering and climbed in the shower to get all the sand off of us.

We curled up on his couch and he lit a fire in the fireplace, and we snuggled for a little while before I leaned back and looked at him.