Thrown Down (Made in Jersey #2)(28)

“Faster, more, more…more.” River spread her thighs wide to give Vaughn room and he took it, sliding her full of those gloriously male fingers. Pumping them into her sex without gentleness. Exactly what she needed. Exactly. “Yes, Vaughn.”

“You’re making me hard again. Fuck.” He pressed his forehead against River’s inner thigh, face screwed up with obvious pain. “No relief. It just never ends, never ends, never…”

He trailed off when River began contracting around his fingers. His head lifted, lust, awe, eagerness battling it out for precedence on his face. River’s muscles slung tight, pleasure rushing through, over, around her. Her fingers tunneled into Vaughn’s hair, tugging, patting, combing, River having no control of them or idea of their intention. She only knew the atomic bliss that came from having her body satisfied so brutally by a grateful man. Grateful because she’d let him use her mouth. Let him treat it like his personal pleasure device, something that never failed to excite her femininity. Through half-closed eyes, she watched Vaughn fall forward and kiss her stomach, trailing his tongue through the valley of her belly button, traveling sideways to nip at her hipbone.

Finally, Vaughn’s head fell into her lap, resting, even as his lethargic fingers attempted to right her panties, his breath still on the shallow side. “What do we do, doll? You told me no messing around. And I’m trying not to screw up this chance.” He smoothed his big hand up and down her thigh, warm air from his mouth feathering her bare midriff. “But I don’t have the strength to say no when you encourage me. I never did. It’s too f*cking good when we give in.”

River hated the reminder that she was sending mixed signals. One second she pushed Vaughn away, the next it was a race to get his pants off. Truthfully, she didn’t know if impulse control was possible with Vaughn. Or maybe…maybe getting physical with him would provide closure. She didn’t know. But if he stayed any longer, they would be at it again. No question. And she would be twice as confused when it ended. “I better get to bed. Marcy wakes up early.”

…

It was the vision of River climbing into bed alone that did it. Another one zoomed in right behind, too. River sleepily preparing breakfast for herself and Marcy in the kitchen. Soft, smiling, sweet. Home. He was supposed to be there. A cutout shape where his body should have been since…always…moved right along River in the shifting images. His life. He wasn’t going to keep climbing out the window of his life. Hope—bright and alive—found the dead center of his stomach like a falling meteor.

He’d come to Hook for scraps. Come to collect any small piece of home and family River could give. But he wanted—needed—it all now. All. He wanted the love of his life back. Wanted the freedom to sync their hearts again, so bad his blood soared to his head, making him dizzy and determined at the same time. Hell, they were already pounding in time together, it was only a matter of earning the right to acknowledge it, and have River acknowledge it, too.

Even though his fighter spirit yearned to pin River down, shove their chests together until she heard the identical beats, common sense had apparently decided to show up. They were adults now, and irrational actions could hurt his chances. He needed to give River time. Time to prove he was the man she’d always needed, but had never gotten. Looking at her now, he could see River’s withdrawal, the uncertainty in the way she moved. And while that reaction to their intimacy—intimacy so vital to Vaughn—seared him in agony, it was warranted.

He didn’t move right away, but eventually stood, guiding his semi-erect manhood back into his boxer briefs, zipping over the swelling ridge with a barely concealed groan. “I can see you starting to regret letting me touch you, and Jesus, I hate it.” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “I want more…time with both of you, Riv. More than anything. But I need time with just you, too. To talk. Can you give me that?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, a shiver of hope dancing across her features, giving him some in return. “Depends what you want to talk about.”

Vaughn shifted in his boots, aching to go forward, to lay everything on the line and accept his sentence. But he staved off the urge, knowing he had a long way to go. So much to prove. “Just think about it.”

As he walked out River’s front door, he threw one final glance over his shoulder, memorizing the way she looked hugging her elbows, so beautiful, so unsure. I’ve got to win her back. I’m done seeing her unsure of me. Vaughn trudged to his truck beneath the harsh glow of the streetlights, but his heart remained in the house, his identical cut out brushing his teeth alongside River, breathing in the scent of her hair as he fell asleep.





Chapter Twelve


Vaughn’s hand shook around the glass of Jack Daniels. It hadn’t stopped shaking since Afghanistan. Since the day he’d lost a dozen friends—good men, better soldiers—lost some of his hearing, hell, lost his mind, too, maybe. The sound of a stool scraping back sent Vaughn’s heart shooting up into his throat, but he disguised it with a cough and drowned it in whiskey.

Yeah, some of his functioning brain must have shaken loose in the explosion. Why else would he be sitting in the Third Shift while River waited for him at the motel? River. Honest, loving, beautiful, pure white sunlight River. How could he touch her with soiled, shaking hands? How could he look at her without cracking in half? She deserved more than a rotting corpse of a man. Christ, he’d been a shitty choice for River since the beginning, but trying to keep her now—with his head so f*cked up—would be a criminal act. He couldn’t, could he? Could he?