Page 28 of Hideaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #4)
“Birdie,” he murmurs when he drops the comforter and sets me down, kneeling to push his face between my thighs, taking a deep, ragged inhale. “My Birdie.”
I tip my chin up to the moon when Elliott backs me against a tree and rolls my panties and leggings down to my ankles.
I should have put on my boots instead of leaving the house in a pair of Goldie’s slippers left by the door, because without them, nothing is stopping him from lifting each foot to pull my leggings off, then draping one knee over his broad shoulder.
“I’m not…not…yours. Oh yes, Daddy,” I moan, pressing my spine into the tree trunk and fisting his hair for balance as I rock my hips, grinding on his tongue as he firms it over my clit.
Elliott’s deep growl of pleasure at hearing the endearment is as powerful as his Bronco’s engine, vibrating through me when he slips one finger into my pussy, then two as my pitch rises for him, louder and louder, wanting more, more, more.
“Wait, stop,” I say suddenly, yanking his head back before giving him the chance to do so on his own, which I know he would have, even if he hadn’t wanted to.
His face is the definition of agony that I’ve pushed him away…
until I hurry to snap the comforter open on the hard ground, then lower myself on top of it on my hands and knees. “Behind, now.”
Elliott rips down the zipper of his dark jeans and shoves the material and his boxers to his knees.
When he lines himself up behind me, I wiggle my hips with impatience.
I need him. Now . I bite my bottom lip to hold back a high-pitched moan when he thrusts three times, pushing deeper with each one, until he’s filled me completely, my pussy prepped by his fingers.
Then he comes down on top of me, his front draped along my back and his hands braced on the outsides of mine, just how I want him.
When his teeth only nip at my neck, teasing me, I tilt my head to the side and tell him, “Bite me!”
He growls when he clamps his teeth down—not hard enough to break my skin, but enough to keep me immobile beneath him as he ruts me into the ground.
Sparks fly behind my closed eyes when he shifts his weight onto one hand so that he can cup and squeeze my breasts that swing with each powerful thrust, then down to caress my baby bump, holding tight as if he’s afraid he’ll never get to hold me like this again. I’m scared, too , I want to tell him.
When he moves his hand down lower to find and massage my clit, my mouth drops open, every sense heightened by the warmth and aching familiarity that is my Elliott.
My Elliott that I never wanted to leave.
My Elliott that I had to leave. My Elliott that may never understand why , no matter how hard he tries.
And so even though I try to hold back my orgasm, hoping time will remain still so I can live in this moment forever with him, my body is an instrument he knows how to play with intimate expertise, and bliss finds me.
I cum with a defeated groan, crying out with pleasure wrapped in despair, begging him not to stop until I find my second, more powerful release since I’m determined to be stronger, to not let him touch me again after tonight.
Because the barest, briefest of his featherlight touches shreds my willpower, blowing apart the shield I need to keep between us.
“I can’t hold back much longer, Mama,” Elliott says with a near-hysterical note to his voice. “Tell me—”
“You can cum now, Daddy.”
He bites down harder and whimpers out his long, hot release, grunting and shaking on top of me, a feeling I don’t ever want to forget but need to for my own sanity.
When his weight begins to sag, I rush to tell him, “Don’t crush me!”
Elliott drops his bulk to the side, taking me down with him, his cock still planted firmly inside me.
“Daddy,” I say quietly, my teeth beginning to chatter when the chill sets in, cooling my overheated skin. “I’m cold,” I say a little louder, almost pleading, and Elliott pulls me back into his body, cradling me with his palm resting on my bare belly.
It’s almost as if we’re back at the cabin, in bed, cut off from the outside world with the kids sleeping just down the hall, where they’ve been begging every day to go back to. Home. Safe. His .
“I missed you,” I whisper, already regretting that I let the words slip, needing to rebuild my strength. “I don’t want to miss you.”
“But you do, Birdie. You miss me as much as I miss you, don’t you?
” Elliott tugs the edge of the comforter up to cover my body and partially his, and he pushes his other arm beneath my head for a pillow.
He kisses the bite mark he left behind, then nuzzles his nose in my hair that’s pulled up into a bun.
I roll and bite my lips to stop the rising tide of emotions working its way up my throat, threatening to choke me, and shake my head.
“You do,” he whispers and strokes my skin pricked with goosebumps as his cock finally softens. Still, he doesn’t pull out. “Tell me it’s real. ”
I shake my head again, just once this time, drowsy with pleasure and Elliott’s body heat, my eyelids growing heavier. “I need to get up,” I murmur when I find it too hard to open my eyes again.
“You need to come home.”
“I told you, I don’t have a home,” I mumble at last, wishing it weren’t true.
Elliott
Cash is king when the power is out, and one of the benefits of knowing just about everyone in town is that it’s easy enough to convince the small mom and pop shops to open their doors for me with the promise of under-the-table cash.
I slide my purchases across the glass-topped display case serving as the checkout counter, and Miss Esperanza pushes her multi-colored spectacles up her nose.
“You’re sure this is on the one you want?
” she asks, inspecting the jigsaw puzzle I’ve picked out—a group of opossums toasting smores with ticks in place of marshmallows on their skewers, dancing around a bonfire in jean shorts and cowboy boots.
“I’m sure,” I say, since it’s perfect, and count the cash I pull from my billfold.
A sheet of printer paper pinned to a small community bulletin board off to the side catches my eye, and I rip it down, the homemade LOST poster curling in on itself with age.
I curse under my breath when I see the stocky, smiling gray dog named Daisy in the printed photo, her pink collar as clean and bright as the yard she’s sunning herself in, her ribs filled out, tail blurred from wagging it so fast.
When I show the poster to Miss Esperanza, she says, “That has been up on the board going on seven or eight months, since Old Man Jones passed.”
A rock sinks in my gut. “Who put up the poster?”
“His son. He came down from Wichita, I believe, to clean out and sell the house, and she got out of the yard. Have you seen her?”
“Yeah,” I say with a heavy sigh, folding the poster and sliding it into my pocket. The kids are going to be devastated when I have to make the call to the number on the poster.
My next stop is to a junkyard about an hour past my place, where I had found both my Broncos.
There’s another classic beauty I’ve had my eye on for some time, but I’m not here for that.
The owner of the junkyard, Henry, kicks the deflated back tire of the kids-sized dirt bike—one of a pair of two bikes, both missing half their parts.
“Not your usual fare,” he says, not bothering to count the handful of bills I pass him before he pockets the cash, since he knows I’m good for it.
I grunt and load the bikes into the back of my Bronco beside the pile of lumber needed to build Kendall’s high chair.
Henry rests his hands beneath the straps of his denim overalls, his knuckles twisted with age and use. “You got kids I don’t know about?” he jokes with a wry smile.
“Yup,” I answer without a moment’s hesitation when I think of Dustin and Sydney helping me restore the bikes. I’ve already sectioned out a piece of my land for the dirt track I want to put in for them.
Henry’s jaw falls slack, the end of his long, wiry gray beard brushing the top of his stomach. “Really? ”
“Mmhmm.” I slam the trunk closed, then pull out of the junkyard with a wave to Henry, turning right down the country road, heading toward my final stop just as the sun sets.
I search the treeline when I pull over and park, hoping Teagan is waiting for me again.
I even lean back against the Bronco’s hood with my ankles crossed, listening for anything that might be out of place.
The snap of a twig beneath her boots, perhaps?
The rustling of a blanket being pulled tight around her shoulders?
But, of course, I’m not that lucky, not after I did a shit job of convincing Birdie I didn’t want her for more than just her body, seeing as I immediately undressed her at my first opportunity last night. She was gone by the time I awoke with the sun, leaving me to miss her that much more.
Regret lives deep in my bones that I probably made everything worse, sated my lust at the expense of her trust and my second chance. It won’t stop me from trying, though, as I creep down Davis’s driveway with the brown paper bags from Miss Esperanza’s shop.
I’m just about to pass the front window on my way to the red front door when I catch some motion from inside.
In the living room, two people are silhouetted against each other, swaying to music I can’t hear.
Davis pulls Goldie closer when they spin, then dips his head to kiss her.
It doesn’t take long for things to get hot and heavy after that, and Davis lifts his wife with her legs around his waist, carrying her out of view.
I want that for me and Birdie so bad that it physically hurts, my throat tightening as my knees grow weak.
My face is wet by the time I drop the bags off, then make my way to the spare bedroom window.
The drapes are pulled closed, so I can’t even get my nightly hit of the sight of my family to get me through the next day. And I know it’s exactly what I deserve.