Page 36

CHAPTER 35

NOW AND LATER

CASS

M any years ago, on a hot summer night at the county fair, Wilder and I took a ride on a Ferris wheel much like this one. And much like this one, his hand ended up buried deep between my legs.

At the time, I praised him as an expert of female anatomy. Compared to most eighteen-year-old kids, he was.

But now, edging thirty? The certainty with which he worked my clit has me kicking myself for waiting this long and weak at the thought of what he’s going to do to me when we get home.

A shudder works its way down my back at the thought, and he pulls me closer as we walk toward The Horseshoe. Tate, Shelby, and a handful of guys from the team and their dates are ahead of us, plus Molly and Carlin—the two of them talking animatedly about books. Greyson is walking behind them with his arms folded like he’s her bodyguard, burning holes in the back of Carlin’s skull. Remy and Jessa are there too, of course, slow enough that we caught up with them, the four of us bringing up the rear.

“So y’all were awfully cozy up there on the Ferris wheel,” Remy’s smirking at Wilder. “Surprised to see how serious you’re taking the whole married thing.”

“How come?” I ask. “We are married after all.”

A laugh cracks out of him. “Well, how about that, Duchess—looks like they finally caved.”

“Told you,” she sings.

“Nobody get hurt, okay?” Remy says.

“Trust me,” Wilder starts, “what I’m gonna do to her won’t hurt.”

Remy punches him in the arm so hard, we list off toward the street.

“Ouch,” he says, laughing. “You know I’m not gonna hurt her.”

“Who says I’m worried about you?”

The attention turns to me, and I feel the twist of fear in my ribcage. But I’m through being scared.

“Nobody knows what’s gonna happen, Remy,” I note. “All I know is that I’m tired of ignoring how I feel and what I want. Sometimes you’ve just gotta jump, consequences be damned. I know you can understand that.”

Remy looks at Jessa and squeezes her tighter. “Yeah, I get it. And thank fucking God because I was sick to death of watching you two pine after each other like teenagers.”

We laugh, but before any of us speaks, Tate turns around so he’s walking backwards in front of Shelby.

“Shoe’s untied,” he says with a smirk. And when she looks down, he flicks her nose.

“You are such a fucking child, Tatum.”

“What? It really is untied.”

She looks down again, and I can practically hear her restraining herself.

Tate laughs. “Oh, come on. I’m just fucking with you. Here—I’ll make it up to you.” He drops to one knee and reaches for her shoelaces, and for a second, it looks like a scene out of Cinderella.

Until he rips off her shoe and takes off running with it.

She makes a primal noise between her teeth, pulling off her other shoe before running Tate down, a string of insults tumbling from her mouth. He’s too fast. But she has the arm of an all-star softball pitcher, and when she chucks her shoe at him, it hits him square in the back of the head.

I doubt it’s the force of her bullseye that sends him tumbling to the ground and into a somersault that continues far beyond what the laws of physics should have granted. But it’s so fucking funny that even Shelby hinges at the waist with her hands on her thighs, catching her breath and cackling. Tate is lying in the middle of the sidewalk, flat on his back with her shoe on his chest. When we catch up, she walks over to him, bends to grab her shoe, and says something we don’t hear. Then she pats him on the cheek several times hard enough to know it must have stung.

But he just laughs, watching her as she steps over him to continue down the sidewalk like he was never there.

Molly blinks. “Are they always like this?”

“Yes,” we all say at the same time, filing into The Horseshoe in a chorus of laughter.

The bar erupts in cheers when the crowd sees Remy, who waves and takes a bow and acts like a ham. The light is golden and warm, and classic country is playing for the couples spinning around the dance floor.

And everything about it feels like home. The happy faces I’ve known all my life, the occasional laughter floating above the din of the crowd and old, familiar music. The scent of Wilder whispering across my skin and into my lungs. The feel of him, so warm and solid next to me, my hand lost inside of his, his smile just for me.

Why did I ever leave this place? I could have gotten a teaching degree anywhere. But at eighteen, it felt like I couldn’t pass up the opportunity at Oxford. It did gain me a best friend, and I wouldn’t trade Jessa for anything, not even my heartache. But I wish I’d never met Davis. I wish I’d never lost myself to the idea of him, the notion of our life together, the novelty of the fairy tale he promised. I wish I’d seen through him and come home after college. I thought back then that coming home would be a sacrifice. But it was the staying that cost me everything.

I can see it now plain as day from where I stand in this silly old bar.

The realization fills me with wonder.

Tate turns to us from the bar. “Y’all want a drink?”

But Wilder smiles down at me and shakes his head. “I’d rather dance with my wife.”

He’s sweeping me toward the dance floor before I can catch the breath he stole, ridding me of his gargantuan jacket only to toss it onto an empty table near the edge of the crowd. A spin, and I’m in his arms, two-stepping wherever he leads me, certain I’d follow him anywhere.

He steals a little kiss and beams down at me.

I beam back.

“You called me husband.”

“I did. You owe me a porn kiss.”

“You got one of those on the Ferris wheel.”

“Oh, not on the mouth, honey.”

The look on his face is hot enough to reduce me to liquid form. “That, I can do. Right fucking now.” He steers us toward the hallway of individual bathrooms.

I laugh, swatting at his arm, wishing I didn’t have to say, “Later.”

He pulls me close, curling into me to bury his face in my neck. “I want now and later,” he whispers against the shell of my ear, sending a wave of goosebumps bursting from the spot where his breath meets my skin.

He straightens so he doesn’t run us into anybody or a table or something, and just in time—we narrowly avoid crashing into the confused-looking Waverlys, who are both over eighty. The last thing we need is a double hip replacement on our consciences.

He lays his smoldering gaze on me again that sends a rush of heat so merciless, it slicks my thighs.

“I want to taste you.” The words are rough, low, nearly a growl. “To watch you come. To slide my cock inside of you so deep, you won’t be able to fucking breathe. I want you naked and begging and as desperate as I am for you. The ten years I’ve waited for this feels like a fucking thousand, and right now, the only thing keeping me sane is the thought of fucking you.” My heart is a freight train, my lids heavy when he leans in. “I am through waiting, Cassidy. Don’t test me.”

He says it with such ferocity, my feeble defenses are demolished. I’m hot and heavy in his arms, the aching between my legs unbearable. My mind empties in a whoosh except for one thought.

A challenging smile tugs at my lips. “Put your money where your mouth is, hot shot. Or my pussy, as it were.”

Before he can kiss me, I spin out of his grip and strut toward the bathrooms, glancing over my shoulder to make sure he’s following.

And the hunger in his eyes as he does leaves me certain I have no idea what I’m in for.

But good God, am I ready to find out.