Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
When I enter the kitchen, Taylor’s eyes seem to search my expression. Am I wearing my disappointment, or is she still thinking about the locked door and resenting me? All I want to do is wrap my arms around her and convince her that being a momma to my children is the only dream she needs.
I’m an asshole.
“Coffee?” I ask.
Taylor immediately jumps to her feet, but I motion for her to sit. “I can manage coffee.”
I stand against the kitchen counter with my thoughts still racing, setting the machine in motion. My son’s face flashes into my mind, his sweet, rounded cheeks and fluffy hair. I never had the chance to be a father to my son, but should that loss drive me to push for something Taylor might not want? When we had sex, she didn’t ask me to wear protection, though. Could she be ignorant of the mechanics of how women get pregnant? Or is there something else going on?
Barb asks Taylor for her carrot cake recipe as I take a pastry from the cooling rack and savor the flavor of almonds and cherries in flaky, buttery pieces.
Taylor has a dream worth pursuing. What kind of man would I be if I suppress that for my own needs? Not a man my mom or Barb would be proud of.
But I know what I want.
And I will have it.
11
TAYLOR
SEEKING FORGIVENESS
After the coffee and pastries are demolished, we walk the Lackeys to their car. Barb giggles like a tipsy teenager as Mitch helps her inside, a little drunk from whiskey, wine, and whatever sweet drink I poured her after dinner.
Jesse hovers, watching them leave while the rest of us walk inside. I’m walking on eggshells, picking up his disquiet. After our discussion earlier, he’s been wary of me. I should regret being so emotional and direct, but I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time, and I’m proud of myself for letting them know how I feel.
The fear that lingered from dealing with my father’s outbursts has ebbed a little with Clint and Maverick. Clint’s aloof and brooding but he seems to be on my side. Both were quick to step in to back me up.
But Jesse’s different.
I keep catching him staring at my midriff, and it aches from me holding it in all night. Is he disgusted with how I look? When we had sex, he kissed me there, so I don’t really understand the change of heart.
He’s holding himself as though he has a rod up his back. Combined with bunched shoulders, it feels as though he’s braced for a fight.
I have to clean the kitchen before I go upstairs. I’m sure they’d expect that from me, but hanging around when the air feels tense enough to cut with a knife is taking all my strength. When Maverick and Clint disappear upstairs to prepare for bed, I’m left in the kitchen, knowing Jesse’s still downstairs. I scrub the pans as hard and as fast as I can, hoping I’ll be able to disappear before Jesse emerges from his study. If I can get into my room and close the door, I’m hoping that will be enough of a barrier to anyone disturbing me. Then again, there are three men in this house expecting sex from me, so I’m sure I’m being unrealistic. Maybe they’ve worked out a schedule that I’m unaware of. Rotating every three days. Will they think about giving me a day of rest?
I’m hot between my legs, and my body’s response puzzles me.
The idea of sex with the cowboys doesn’t generate a comprehensible response from me. My mind tells me to be wary, my heart tells me to keep them at arm’s length and remember that I’m here only because I love Molly, and I have no alternative. My body, though… my body wants to feel more of the pleasure they gave me so easily.
I’m weaker than I thought I’d ever be as my body flushes with heat, and I grow heavy and achy between my thighs.
Memories flutter through my head. Maverick counting as he penetrated me, Clint kissing a path up the inside of my thigh, and Jesse whispering good girl. Am I sick for enjoying all of it?
I’m certainly selfish for not focusing on Molly enough and risking her safety by getting angry with the man who brought me here.
I should apologize. I should make him feel good, so he forgets my anger and fear. He needs to be relaxed and focused on his own needs and how I can fulfill them. He has to want me to stay so much he’ll take on another mouth to feed.
My hands tremble as I place the last pan on the drying rack. I dry my hands slowly on a towel, staring out of the window into the inky darkness. There’s no jaundiced glow of streetlights out here, no sounds from neighbors’ houses or rumbling of passing cars. The silence feels deafening, the isolation like a ceiling pressing down.