Page 54

Rhys

A cts of faith are funny. They’re the opposite of that popular saying The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.

Faith is about doing the same thing over and over again and expecting, finally, different results.

I don’t expect anything after Sonya and Quinn’s party. I haven’t let myself expect anything this whole time. Because I meant what I said to her. I don’t want her to be something I feel entitled to. I don’t want her to come to me because she owes it to me or because I’ve somehow tricked her into it.

I only want her if I deserve her, and I only deserve her if she believes I’ll never hurt her. And I can’t tell her that. I can only show her.

I help Sonya and Quinn clean up, and then I retire to the guesthouse. I need a place of my own, and I’ll get one soon, but I’m trying to get things straightened out with my old and new jobs first, and then I’ll deal with housing questions. So for now, it’s the guesthouse.

I’ve showered and pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt when there’s a knock. I’m so sure it’s Sonya or Quinn that I don’t even hesitate; I just open the door.

But it’s Eden.

She’s standing there, still wearing the clothes she had on at the party—a pair of tight black velvet leggings that turn her slim body into a paradise of curves.

It was the cling of those leggings to the swerve of her hips and ass that made me lose control enough to press myself to her backside on the deck, even though I’d told myself I wouldn’t touch her unless she asked me to.

I was too weak for that, and I have zero regrets; I can still feel the firm curve of her ass against the steel of my cock.

She’s wearing a loose wine-colored top with a scoop neck that draws my eyes straight to her tits, which I’ve been trying not to stare at all night. I don’t stare now, either, but only because I can’t take my eyes off the other thing she’s wearing.

The cowboy hat, tilted at a jaunty angle.

From under the hat, she’s smiling at me. In her hands, she has a folded quilt. She opens it and holds it up, her face barely visible peeking over the sweep of it.

“Made this for you,” she says. “It was almost done tonight. I just had to go home and finish sewing the binding. I was hoping you’d still be awake.”

It’s nine individual squares, and each square is a moment from our road trip, images pieced together from scraps of bright-colored fabric, just shapes and outlines but easily recognizable: her cowboy hat, the stack of quilts that sent us on our way, the view of the ocean from the beach house, the gas station where we spent the night, the quilt show, the piggyback ride, her lace underpants, the frog slippers, the airplane.

My heart pounds.

“I’m happy,” she says. “I’m happy in a way I’ve never been happy. I want to be with you. All the way, in all the ways, for as long as it makes sense to both of us. And if it can’t last forever, I think I’m okay with that, too.”

In the low light of the guesthouse porch, her face is half-lit, but her eyes are bright, and her smile is big, and all I want to do is drag her inside and take her like the caveman she turns me into.

But I make myself be patient because she deserves that.

“I’m not,” I say. “I want forever.”

Her smile gets bigger.

“I mean,” she says. “That’s okay, too.”

She’s brought the dogs with her, and she retrieves them from the car. They race each other into the guesthouse and begin sniffing all its corners before briefly tussling over right-of-ownership of my favorite corner of the couch.

Meanwhile, I tug Eden over the threshold and shut the door behind her. I take the hat off her head and sail it, Frisbee style, to the couch, where the dogs sniff it and then turn up their noses.

Then I kiss her.

Her mouth is cool and soft, and she tastes like the chocolate cake we ate at the party, and I can’t get enough of her.

I can’t get enough of the silky feel of her or the way she whimpers every time our tongues touch or the way she clutches my hair like she’ll do anything to make sure I don’t stop kissing her.

I can’t get enough of the fact that she came to me, that she’s mine. I want to be so deep in her that there’s no doubt in either of our minds.

We kiss and kiss, like we can’t get enough, like we’re willingly, happily drowning, gasping for breaths when we have to before going back for more.

Her hands in my hair, mine at the small of her back until she wiggles herself against my erection.

Without meaning to I pull her closer, cupping the delicious curve of her ass in the palm of my hand.

Drawing her tight to me. Groaning at the feel of her, not only there but everywhere—the satin of her hair, the soft press of her tits against my chest, one of her hands wrapping hard around my bicep.

Eden pulls back, struggling with her top, and I help her, untangling her and tossing the shirt over her shoulder so I can take her in.

The light in the room is low, and she’s especially beautiful like this, in a black lace bra that pushes her small tits up like a feast for me.

I accept the offering and draw a line of kisses across that lace edge, then push one cup down and circle her nipple with my tongue.

She bucks against me, whining, and I decide that’s my new favorite sound.

While I work both her nipples, she tips her hips hard against me, the vee of her thighs squeezing my cock between my body and hers.

I bend my knees and thrust up against her, and she pushes herself harder into my mouth, into my palm.

I can tell she’s going to be easy for me tonight, that I could make her come without even trying.

I pull back, put some space between our greedy thrusts, ease off her tits so I’m just playing lightly with them.

“More,” she begs.

“I want to make you come while I’m inside you.”

“Oh,” she says. “Yeah. That. I want that.”

Laughing, I scoop her up and carry her to the bed. I lay her down and finish undressing her, then do the same for myself. Then I dig in the nightstand drawer for a condom and roll it on.

I spend a long time on the next step. Because I want to enjoy every single second of it—of taking her and making her mine and being inside her.

I brace myself over her, looking down at her face, her eyes hazy with pleasure that I’m bringing her , her mouth soft and hungry.

I kiss her again, lowering myself over her so my cock grazes her mound, and she bucks into the touch, lifting her hips and grinding to get as much friction as she can.

“Patience,” I say, and she growls.

I slip a hand between us, between her folds, finding her wet and slick. “I need you to tell me you want this,” I say. “I need you to tell me you want me to fuck you. And I need you to say you’ll tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I can tell you to leave,” she says, nodding. “I know I can. And I know that if I don’t, you’ll—” She hesitates, and her eyes fill up with tears.

“Oh, God,” I say. “Eden.”

“It’s okay,” she says brokenly. “Good tears. I know if I don’t tell you to leave, you’ll stay.”

“That’s right. I’ll stay. As long as you want me to.”

“I want you inside me,” she says. “I want you to fill me up. I want you to fuck me.”

“Just the tip,” I say. “You can only have the tip.”

“Bastard,” she whispers as I slide the head of my cock between her lips, up over her clit, down to where her moisture pools, up again.

Over and over, until she’s whining again.

Then I nudge myself inside her. Just the tip.

Just the head. Breeching her. Parting her.

Watching her eyes go hazier, her mouth go softer, her head fall back.

“More,” she begs again.

It’s taking every ounce of patience I have. I want to thrust into her. I want to fill her, to pound her. I want to show her how much I’ve held back and how much I want. But I just give her another inch, and another, while she tries to lift her hips and press me deeper.

She’s so tight. So hot. She’s a vise around my cock, and the sensation is just as intense around my balls, around the base of my spine.

Eden squeezes her inner muscles, and I try. I try so hard. But she’s kneading me and begging with words and sounds, and I’m not superhuman. I’m just not.

I thrust, hard, all the way home, seating myself in her, and we groan together, because it’s?—

“So good,” she moans.

“So fucking good,” I agree. “You feel so good.”

And it’s true, the sensation of it is practically overwhelming, but that’s not what matters right now—it’s the way she’s looking at me, her face so open and needy, so full of…

“I should have said this before,” she says. “This is a terrible time to say it. You just have to know that I’ve been thinking it for weeks. Since you said you were staying. I love you.”

“I don’t think it’s a terrible time,” I say. It’s a lot, though. So much. My chest full of her words and my cock full to bursting for her, my whole body on the edge of detonation, hot and wild and uncontrolled. “I love you, too,” I say. “I have for a long time. I will forever.”

I dip my head, find a nipple, still thrusting, looking for the angle and the depth that will make her lose her mind, and then I find it.

I know because of the way she gets suddenly wetter, because she starts murmuring my name brokenly, and then I add a hitch of my hips up over hers, tugging her taut, grinding into her mound, and she comes apart under me, crying and whining and moaning, her muscles clenching and unclenching, her arms wrapped tight, her cheek pressed to mine, and I can’t do anything except follow her over, to wherever we’re going next.