Page 10 of Fixing to be Mine (Valentine Texas #5)

CHAPTER SEVEN

SUNNY

T he second the bathroom door clicks shut, I brace both hands on the vanity and stare at my reflection like it might tell me what the hell I’m doing.

My skin’s flushed, my pulse won’t settle, and my body is vibrating from everything that’s happened between us.

The tequila swims through my blood, making me give no fucks.

Inhibitions being down around him is bad.

Colt didn’t kiss me, but I’m still wrecked because I wanted him to.

I try to pretend this is another shower in another place with nothing on my mind, but all I can see is him and the way he looked at me today.

I’ll never forget how his voice dropped when he told me I looked good, covered in his mess.

He caught my chin, his gaze locked on my lips, and told me I didn’t know what I was doing to him.

That damn drawl, combined with those baby-blue eyes, is deadly.

It would’ve been easier if he had kissed me. At least then I’d have something to explain why I was this undone. Then I’d know if there was a real spark between us.

My whole body sings from our chemistry. It’s electrifying. A simple look has me coming undone.

I tilt my head back and let it pour over my face, over my neck, down between my breasts, and over the tight pull in my belly that hasn’t let up since he pressed me against that wall.

The moment I close my eyes, I see him, T-shirt clinging to his chest, sweat dripping down his neck, fingers smeared with drywall compound and temptation.

Those black glasses framed his face perfectly, giving him that nerdy but sexy vibe.

The water cascades down my body like liquid fire, each droplet a searing reminder of the tequila coursing through my veins. Four shots deep, and I’m fucking buzzing, my skin hypersensitive, my mind lost in a whirlwind of Colt.

Colt. Colt. Colt.

His name is a mantra, a prayer, and a curse.

He’s only twenty-eight, six years younger than me, but fuck if he doesn’t make me feel like a goddamn teenager again.

Three days of knowing him is all it took.

Three fucking days, and I’m already imagining his hands on me, his mouth on me, his cock—Jesus Christ, his cock—pounding into me like he owns me.

The thought has my breath catching in my throat.

I imagine what would’ve happened if I’d kissed him or if I hadn’t stopped my hands from slipping under the hem of his shirt. My hips already shift forward, and I brace one hand on the tiles, the other sliding down my stomach, tracing the path I wish his hands would take.

I touch myself, fingers carefully gliding over my clit, the water making it easier to pretend it’s his voice in my ear or his big, strong, callous hand between my thighs.

I bite my bottom lip to keep quiet, but a soft moan still slips out.

Thankfully, it’s swallowed by the rush of water.

A gasp escapes me as my fingers find my clit, already swollen, already begging for attention.

I circle it slowly at first, teasing myself, but, fuck, I can’t help it—I’m too desperate, too needy.

My fingers dive into my pussy, two at once, and I moan so loud that I’m afraid he’ll hear me.

I shove my fist into my mouth to stifle the sound, biting down on my knuckles as I finger-fuck myself harder, faster.

My hips buck against my hand, and I imagine it’s him.

Colt. His thick, veiny cock stretching me open, filling me up, making me scream.

I can almost feel his hands gripping my hips, his breath hot on my neck as he catapults me into oblivion.

My fingers curl inside me, hitting that sweet spot that makes my knees weak, and I whimper.

“Colt,” I whisper, his name slipping out like he’s my secret.

My knees wobble, and my back arches as my hand works faster.

He’s on my mind and in my head as I imagine that sexy smirk and his eyes I want to drown in.

I tilt my head back, my mouth parting as my fingers work over my pussy.

My body’s never felt so hot from something as innocent as banter or flirting.

His Southern sex appeal nearly has me unraveling.

My clit throbs under my touch, and I rub it quicker, my fingers a blur as I chase the orgasm that’s been building since the moment I met him. My ex—that cheating bastard—couldn’t get me off, but Colt? Colt ruins me with one look.

The rhythm builds faster than I expected, like my body’s been waiting all day for permission, and I give in to the fantasy of him. The thought of him hearing me, of him walking in and seeing me like this—naked, wet, fucking myself raw with his name on my lips—sends me over the edge.

My body convulses as I come, my pussy clenching around my fingers, my thighs trembling. I slide down the shower wall, my legs giving out as the pleasure rips through me like a fucking earthquake. I’m utterly wrecked as I think about how he looks at me like he’s already decided our future.

My chest heaves as the water washes over me, but it’s not enough to cool the fire he’s lit inside me. I’m in too deep, too fast, and I’m fucking scared. I haven’t been single for four years, and I don’t know how to act.

I close my eyes and take it all in—the guilt, the longing, the fear that this thing with him is already too big to handle.

I want him. God, I need him.

Once I grab an ounce of control, I get out and wrap a towel around my body and step into the cooler air outside the shower.

Steam swirls around me like it knows what I did.

My legs still feel unsteady, like my body hasn’t caught up with what happened.

I grip the edge of the counter and take a breath, trying to slow my pulse.

My reflection stares back at me through the fogged-up mirror—flushed cheeks, parted lips, damp hair curling at the ends.

I look like I’ve been fucked. I wrap the towel tighter around my body, like I can hold myself together with it.

God, what am I doing?

I’m a thirty-four-year-old runaway bride with a chip on her shoulder and a suitcase full of regret. And I got myself off in a stranger’s shower because he had smiled at me and had manners.

Pathetic.

I grab my toothbrush as if it might transport me back to reality, but my body still surges with need. Doesn’t help that his deep voice still echoes in my head. I close my eyes and hope he didn’t hear me when I moaned his name with my hand between my thighs like he already belonged there.

I open the door to the bathroom and look down the hallway to see if he’s on the couch. He’s not. I quickly cross to his bedroom, and when I walk inside, I drop the towel. Only then do I realize he’s standing at the dresser, shirtless, in gray sweatpants.

Colt turns, and his mouth falls open, and then he immediately shifts his back toward me.

“Oh my God,” I mutter.

I stop breathing altogether as I freeze in place. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because my whole body goes molten in an instant. Heat floods every inch of me, and it’s not only from the shock of being seen. It’s him.

I pick up the towel and try to quickly wrap it around my body. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were in here!”

His back is rigid, one hand braced flat against the dresser. I can see the flex in his arm and how his breath is uneven. He’s trying so hard not to turn around.

I stand there, dripping, towel snug, my body still wet from the shower and flushed from a release I can’t explain.

His voice comes out strained. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Bullshit. You saw everything,” I say, my voice a challenge. “Don’t lie.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t deny it this time, and he doesn’t move. “I didn’t mean to. I needed to change clothes.”

My pulse pounds in my ears as I move toward the bed, grabbing his shirt I took off this morning.

I slide the shirt over my head because I can feel him even without looking.

The tension in the air is alive. The hem falls against my thighs, fabric clinging to every curve of my breasts, my nipples hard.

I don’t bother with panties. There’s no use pretending I have anything left to hide.

“I’m decent,” I say, and he turns, giving me a look that could burn the whole goddamn house down.

His eyes drag over me, and the only way to describe it is hungry. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” I tell him, my voice too breathless to pass for casual.

He takes one step forward, and it’s enough to tilt the room. Or that’s the tequila.

“Sunny,” he says, my name a warning.

I take a step too. Then we’re five feet apart, four, and soon, we’re standing in the middle of the room like gravity pulled us there without permission. His gaze drops to my mouth.

I feel him before he touches me.

Every muscle is tuned to the moment he closes the distance. And then, like he’s giving me every chance to stop him, he lifts his hand and drags his fingers across the edge of my jaw, down the slope of my neck, stopping above the curve of my breast.

I stop breathing.

“I heard you say my name,” he says.

My heart stutters, but his gaze doesn’t drop.

I take his hand and press it against the center of my chest, right where my heart is pounding like it wants out of my body. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” he says.

“I’m scared shitless,” I admit.

Colt smiles. “Don’t be. Live in the moment.”

He places his hands on my shoulders, and I have to get a grip. Colt’s blue eyes are unreadable, but I can see the muscle in his jaw twitching, like he’s trying to rein something in.

My throat tightens.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” I mutter, moving past him before I do something I might regret, like kiss him. The loss of his closeness is instant.

I can feel his eyes on me as I lift my suitcase onto the bed, but I avoid his gaze.

“What shouldn’t have happened?” he asks carefully.

I grab a pair of panties and slide them on as he watches.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that.” I suck in a breath. “I got carried away. The tequila. With everything.”

Silence stretches, but he doesn’t let me sit in it long.

“That wasn’t tequila, and you know it.” His voice is unapologetic.

I look up at him.

“You said my name,” he repeats. “Say it every damn time. You want to fall apart with me on your tongue? You do it.”

My chest tightens, heart thudding against my ribs, like it’s trying to warn me away from this perfect man.

“Colt,” I say, louder than a breath.

“Don’t deny yourself the things you want, especially not me,” he adds.

I blink a few times, tucking my emotions behind my ten-foot wall, and straighten my back. “I can’t have you.”

He smirks. “Why?”

“This conversation is ridiculous.” I stare at him.

“We both know where this is headin’. Gotta be honest though, I do have some rules if we move forward.”

He takes a step toward me and places his hand on my hip. “Forward with what, exactly?”

“This. I know you feel it too,” he says.

I open my mouth to speak but lose the ability.

“Tell me your rules,” I finally say.

“No strings attached. I want you to live your life without thinking you need to uproot your entire life to be with me.”

My brows furrow. “You act like I’m going to fall in love with you.”

“You will. And you know you will. That’s why you’re so hesitant.” His brow cocks up as he watches me. “But you also want me out of your system.”

“Seriously?” I want to deny it, but I can’t. That would be a lie, and I’ve already told enough of those since I left New York. I add a scoff at the end for good measure.

“Deny it if it’s not true,” he simply says.

I look at him—really look at him. He easily sees straight through me.

“I recently got out of a very serious four-year relationship. The last thing I need to do is have?—”

“Fun. I agree,” he says. “Especially considering what will happen if this line is crossed. That’s why you have to make that decision. Not me.”

My mouth falls open. “You’re so confident and cocky about this.”

“No, I’m just direct. Something you’re not used to handling from me,” he says. “You don’t intimidate me.”

I scoff, but it turns into laughter. “I do intimidate fragile men. I can’t deny that. But trust me when I say, I’m not going to fall in love with you.”

“ Okay .” He says it so casually; it shouldn’t make my breath catch, but it does. “Before we move forward with this, I have a question for ya.”

“Yes?”

“If you met the perfect partner, would you want to have kids?” he asks.

I stare at him, trying to figure out why he’s asking me this. “The perfect partner doesn’t exist.”

“Darlin’, you’re wrong about that. Now, come on. Quit stallin’. Your answer determines everything. You have to be truthful,” he says, moving away from me. He pulls his dresser drawer open, slides out a shirt, then tugs it over his body.

I cross my arms tighter over my chest, trying to build some armor between us, but it’s useless. He already heard me come undone. He heard me say his name like a prayer I didn’t mean to whisper.

“If the perfect man existed, then yes,” I say, blinking up at him. “Well? Did I pass or fail?”

“Right answer. I can’t cross a line with anyone who doesn’t eventually want to have a family.” He grins, and it’s cocky, but it holds a promise.

“I understand. But if I met the perfect man and he didn’t want children, I’d make that sacrifice for true love,” I tell him.

“You’re perfect,” he tells me, and I know he means it. “The perfect person for you wouldn’t ask you to sacrifice anything.”

My cheeks go crimson.

He steps closer, not touching me, but close enough to make it clear he could. I breathe him in. Colt is steady and dangerous in all the right ways.

“I can’t fall in love. It would only complicate my life.”

“Then don’t.” His expression doesn’t falter. “All I’m askin’ is for you to stop running from something that could be real good for you, even if it’s only temporary. No expectations.”

“Okay,” I whisper and pause for a few seconds. “But what if I want there to be expectations at some point?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, grinning. “That’s easy. You stay.”

I stare at him and wonder how he believes I’m the perfect one when he says things like that with such ease and confidence.

“And what if you want me to go?”

His eyes soften around the edges. “I don’t and won’t.”

“How can you be so positive?”

“Because when you know, you know.”