Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(80)

“Billy, God, please.” A hitching whisper and a moan, a hint of frustration. Her lashes lifted and she stared at me, her eyes hazy and frantic and beseeching.

Gripping myself, I lifted to my knees, positioning the head of my cock and moving a thumb to trace the swollen and slick bundle of nerves above her entrance. Curses escaped her as she continued to pant, her gorgeous breasts bouncing with each jolting rise and fall of her rib cage, shifting her hips to force and speed my progress.

I entered her.

She shuddered and so did I, and I savored the moment.

I savored the sight of her willing body on display—sunrays, moonbeams, and starlight—the beauty of her vulnerability and surrender. I savored the hazy, lust-crazed look in her eye. I savored the feel of her silky heat around my cock and the fact that I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it would never be enough. I’d be chasing this feeling for the rest of my life, like a junkie, like an addict. This perfect moment where the anguish of our shared past met the bliss of our present and everything was exactly the way it should be.

And then I moved.

Anchoring one hand to her hip to control the angle, I leaned forward so I could roll my hips, ensuring her clit would stretch with every stroke. She whimpered, cursed, took the Lord’s name in vain, her hands kneading my muscles, her nails digging into my flesh. She seemed lost to her own desire, nonsensical, grasping and greedy and I loved it. I loved how I wrecked her, because she wrecked me just the same.

But as soon as she opened her eyes and our gazes locked, she came like a comet, her canal tensing and spasming around me in violent bursts as her body bowed. She reached for me. A cry, a whimper, a moan, mindless sounds and sensations that pushed me beyond reason. I drove into her, my thrusts covetous and significantly less considerate of her pleasure as some primordial instinct demanded I claim her, coming inside her body, filling her with my release and hedonistically rejoicing at our lack of restraint.

The desire to touch her unending, I gathered her pliant body against me as I rolled to the side, careful not to crush her with my weight. Where I directed, she followed, resisting only to place sleepy kisses on my chest and throat, her arms twining around my neck.

“I love you,” she whispered between kisses, still breathless, clearly exhausted. “God, how I love you. I love every part of you and I want us to make love every day, ten times a day for the rest of our lives.”

“Agreed.”

She snuggled closer, nuzzling my beard. “I never want us to be apart.”

“Agreed.” I encouraged her to wrap her leg over mine, my hand sliding up her thigh to her bottom.

“That means we eat every meal together from now on.”

“Agreed.”

“And shower together.”

Fuck yeah, I thought, but kissed her forehead, saying another, “Agreed.”

Fact was, she could ask me for anything right now and the answer would probably be Agreed. Like Scarlet’s spirit, my happiness and satisfaction in the moment could not be confined. It was simply beyond expression.

Or reason.





Reason hunted me down in the middle of the night.

I awoke with a start, not knowing where I was, tangled in the threads of a nightmare. Once I comprehended my surroundings—and that I was alone in bed—I wondered for a moment if making love to Scarlet had also been a dream. My eyes adjusted, the blood ceased rushing between my ears, and I heard the shower running. I was naked.

Not a dream.

Dread swelled just under my ribs and I rubbed my eyes with the base of my palms. We didn’t use a condom.

This had been the seed of my nightmare, the irreversible fact from which multiple scenarios of chaos and misery had stemmed. In all iterations of my nightmares, Scarlet had been pregnant. But what happened next had been like watching a parade of horror stories written by Stephen King. At the end of each, she hated me.

Standing from the bed, I walked to the bathroom. I needed to see her, to determine what she needed from me, what I could do in order to make things right and atone for my recklessness and selfishness. I pushed open the door, blinking against the brightness. She hadn’t turned on all the lights, just one above the glass shower, illuminating the form of her but not the details.

I took two steps toward the shower before I stopped, a different kind of reason emerging as sleep inertia faded. Lucidity materialized like a wise bartender, pointing out facts I already knew. She doesn’t hate you.

“Billy?”

Scarlet came into vivid focus, peeking out of the door to the shower, most of her body hidden by frosted glass. A shy-looking smile hitched her mouth higher on one side as her attention moved over my body.

“Did you want—” She huffed, rolling her eyes, her smile growing. “I mean, do you want to join me?”

My mind told me to hesitate, to think. Whereas my feet were already carrying me forward. She opened the door wider, stepping back. Soon I was inside the small shower stall and sharing the hot stream of water with a watchful Scarlet, her arm making a valiant—and failing—attempt to cover her breasts.

“Did I wake you?” she asked, her voice higher than normal and cracking a little on the last word.

I breathed in the steam and responded without thinking, “I had a nightmare.”

Her shyness vanished, her forehead wrinkling, and she took a half step toward me. “Oh no. Are you okay?”