Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
I murmur words of reverence as I cup her cheek, kiss her mouth. Tell her how much I missed her, missed this, how she’s the only one I think of, the only one I want. She shivers, moans against my lips.
“There’s only you,” she whispers. “No one else will do.”
Has she any idea what that does to me? My lids prickle, emotion clogging my throat as I ease between her spread thighs. Staring down at her softly smiling face, auburn strands of her hair sticking to her flushed skin, my arms bracketing her slim body, I push into the snug clasp of her and shudder, undone, pleasure flowing down my limbs like liquid heat.
I move slowly, going in deep and holding there for a long moment before pulling back and doing it again. Again. Working myself home, claiming my place, making her moan.
I kiss her mouth, touch her cheeks, the curve of her neck. This is love. I know it now. The utter adulation in our touches, the perfection of it. It is peace and comfort and pleasure all in one.
The knowledge swells between us, reflected in her eyes. And she touches me with trembling hands, moves with me, taking me just as I take her. In that moment, I know the truth: I am home.
After a long journey, I am home.
Brenna
The little house in the woods just beyond the lake started life as a gamekeeper’s cottage. Like something out of a fairy tale with its thatched roof, eyebrow dormers, and walls of timber and stucco. It had fallen into disrepair until Uncle Xander renovated the place in the 1990s. Now, the floors glow mellow honey and marshmallow-cream walls contrast with the dark old beams stretched over the low ceiling.
As kids, Killian and I used to sneak in here from time to time, pretending to be Hansel and Gretel. Or, in our teen years, to smoke pot and read books, or listen to music while lounging on the overstuffed sofa set up before the river-stone fireplace.
At some point last night, an envelope was thrust under Rye’s door, containing a heavy iron key and a note from Killian that read:
For the love of all that’s holy (and my freaking ears), please, please, please take the cottage. Love you, Bean (& Rye, I guess).
—Kills
I suppose Rye and I had gotten a little too loud, and the note was Killian’s way of saying he supported our relationship, something I think we both needed to hear. So we happily decamped to the cottage, heading directly for the massive oak tester bed, draped in butter-colored toile that took up nearly the entirety of the bedroom alcove.
Though the house has a fully stocked kitchenette, later the following day, Whip delivered us a lunch basket, smugly speculating that we needed real sustenance in the form of a hot meal.
A grinning Rye thanked his friend at the door then crawled back in bed to feed me bites of savory steak pasties with a buttery crust that melted on the tongue and left little golden flakes on my lips for Rye to lick off.
We devoured lunch, washing it down with cold, hoppy beers, before Rye shoved everything to the side and then spread my legs to have his “dessert.” At some point, we drifted off to sleep, but it must not have been for long, because the fire still crackles behind the grate when I wake.
It begins to rain, a steady fall that taps against the windows and turns the outside light weak and gray. Inside, however, is quiet and cozy and beautiful. Cream-colored rag rugs over mellow wood floors, tobacco-velvet club chairs, and the slouchy long couch covered in faded cream-cabbage rose print lend the room a soft and pleasing feel, while emerald-green gourd lamps with deep red shades cast a rosy glow to the room.
Rye is still asleep, his muscled body a sprawl of firm, golden skin and mosaics of colorful ink. One big foot hangs over the edge of the bed, the white sheets twisted around one beefy thigh. Smiling, I run a hand over the back of his spiked hair. In the dim of the alcove, it’s the color of old bronze with glints of gold. He grunts in his sleep, turning his head my way. There’s not a gentle line on his boldly shaped features, save his lips. Those are wide and soft, the bottom lip plush and utterly biteable.
A light exhalation leaves him, the thick fan of his lashes fluttering with his dreams. I let him be. The poor man more than earned his sleep.
Languid and replete, I lift my arms and stretch out all the delicious little aches and pains that making love to Rye left behind. The room is warm enough that I don’t bother with a robe but pad naked to the bathroom.