Page 12 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Twelve

T he tacos are messy and perfect, dripping with grease and spices and whatever magic the woman working the truck poured into them.

We’re sitting on a faded quilt Kristin pulled from the linen closet, spread across the grass at the edge of the lake.

Kristin’s sitting cross-legged in cutoffs and a pale tank top, no bra.

Her nipples press faintly against the fabric, and I’ve been trying not to stare since she came down the porch steps like that.

Her hair’s loose again, curling around her shoulders, and her mouth is stained red from the salsa she swore wasn’t hot.

Her lips look soft and full, and every time she licks one clean, my clit throbs.

“So,” she says, holding out a half-eaten taco like she’s offering me a gift.

“Do I get points for trusting you with dinner?”

I take a bite straight from her hand, teeth grazing her fingers. “If I’d known you were this easy to impress, I’d have brought tacos on day one.”

She laughs, low and warm. “You’d have gotten laid either way.”

“Good to know.”

We eat in companionable silence, punctuated occasionally with a moan of appreciation for the food.

The lake glints in the background, the occasional fish breaking the surface with a soft splash.

The air has cooled just enough to lift the sweat from our skin without chilling it.

Kristin leans back on her hands, her body arching slightly.

The tank pulls taut across her chest, and I take a long drink from my beer to keep from reaching for her.

She tilts her head toward the water. “You ever swim in a lake at night?”

Looking at the water, I nod. “Yeah. But not since I was a kid.”

She grins. “Want to try it again? It feels fantastic.”

“You’re selling it pretty hard.”

“I don’t have to,” she says, standing slowly.

She brushes taco crumbs from her thighs, then reaches for the hem of her tank.

“I’ve got other ways to convince you.” She peels the shirt off in one slow motion and tosses it onto the quilt.

Her breasts are bare, full and flushed from the heat, nipples dark and tight.

She doesn’t look away, doesn’t cover herself.

She simply stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on mine. “We won’t need swimsuits.”

I don’t blink. “No, ma’am. We don’t.” Climbing to my feet, I strip where I stand.

Shirt first, then boots, then jeans. I feel her eyes on me as I slide my thumbs under the waistband and push my underwear down.

My body is sun-warmed and ready, skin humming from the way she’s watching me.

I’m not shy, never have been, but something about the way she devours me with her eyes makes me feel seen in a way that’s almost too much.

Almost. She turns and walks toward the dock.

The muscles in her back shift under her skin.

The curve of her ass is smooth and perfect, and I almost want to bite it.

She walks to the edge, raises her arms, and dives.

The splash is clean, and her body slices through the water.

She disappears beneath the surface, and for a moment, I can’t see her.

Then she surfaces, hair slicked back, water dripping from her lashes.

Her breasts bob at the surface, with her nipples close to the waterline.

She laughs, and the sound echoes over the lake.

“Come on, soldier,” she calls. “Show me what you’ve got.

” There’s freedom in her voice, unburdened and light.

It’s the kind of sound that doesn’t come from safety.

It comes from choosing joy despite everything.

I walk to the edge of the dock, toes curling over the wood and bend my knees. With one fluid motion, I push off and flip once before I hit the water with a splash that sends a small wave her way. When I surface, she’s closer. Treading water. Watching me.

“Not bad,” she says.

“I aim to please.”

We drift near each other, and she dips under again, then pops up right in front of me. Her hands rest on my shoulders, and her legs kick slowly. “You know,” she says. “You look different in the water.”

“Yeah?”

“Looser. Less guarded. Happier.”

“I’m naked and wet. Bobbing here with a sexy woman who is also naked and wet,” I say. “How can I not be happy?”

She grins. “Exactly.” I slide closer and she coyly swims away, moving toward the dock.

I follow until I can wrap an arm around her waist, the other braced against the dock behind her.

I press her gently to the wood, her back flat against the ladder.

She doesn’t resist. Her legs float up and wrap around my hips, her pussy sliding against my lower stomach.

She gasps, and I feel it. Her heat even through the water, the way her body pulses against mine.

I kiss her and take it deeper. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and she grinds against me, her breath catching. “Not here,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

Letting her go, I nod, and she climbs the ladder, water running down her body in rivulets. The light’s fading fast, but I still see the curve of her ass, the muscles in her thighs. She steps onto the dock and turns, offering me her hand. I take it.

The wood is damp under my feet, rough against my soles, as she leads me to the blanket in the grass, dropping to her knees, and pulling me down with her.

The air is cooler now, but our bodies are flushed, slick with lake water and hunger.

The grass is cool beneath the quilt, and for a breath, we simply stay there, two women surrounded by trees and twilight.

I lie back, and she straddles me, her pussy hovering just above my stomach. She leans down and kisses me, her tongue tracing the seam of my lips before dipping in. Her hands slide over my breasts, fingers teasing my nipples until I’m gasping. “Let me taste you,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Not tonight.” She shifts her hips, sliding her wet center down my stomach, over my ribs, until she’s pressing right above my hard clit.

“I want this.” She grinds against me, her breath catching, and her hands braced on my chest. I grab her hips, guiding her rhythm, feeling the heat of her spread across my skin.

She rides me hard. Like she’s waited all damn day for this.

Her hair falls forward, wet strands clinging to her cheeks.

Her mouth is open, and her eyes are closed.

When I flex my abs under her, she cries out, her nails digging into my skin. “Fuck, Reggie. Yes. More.”

I give her more. I keep her moving. Keep her pressed to me, wet and hot and desperate.

Her clit drags over my skin, pulsing against me.

Her whole body tightens, and she comes with a strangled cry, her thighs trembling, her pussy soaking my skin.

She collapses forward, her chest pressed to mine, her breath hot against my neck, but I’m not finished.

I roll her onto her back, kiss her hard, then slide my hand between her legs.

She’s still throbbing, still wet, still open.

I slip two fingers inside her and she gasps. “Again?” I ask.

Moaning, she nods. “Yes.”

Loving the feel of her tight on my fingers, I fuck her slowly this time.

Deep. My thumb circles her clit, and she arches into me, her hips lifting, her mouth open in a quiet moan.

I stare at her face, watching the way she falls apart.

She’s so goddamn gorgeous. Her second orgasm crashes through her, and she pulls me up, her hands in my hair, her legs wrapped around me.

Now it’s my turn to grind against her, chasing my own release, sliding my swollen clit over her skin.

When it hits, I ride the wave, my body shaking until finally I go limp beside her.

We lay there tangled, breath ragged, skin cooling in the night air.

A few of the brightest stars are out now and the lake is quiet. I close my eyes.

Kristin’s fingers are slow now. Not teasing.

Not coaxing. Just curious. She shifts, propping herself up enough to run her fingers across the scar low on my belly.

The one a little left of center, where the skin is puckered and tight.

She doesn’t ask at first. Only traces it.

Her touch is light, but still my stomach tenses.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asks quietly.

I shake my head. “No. It’s okay.”

She doesn’t look at me, but her fingers don’t leave my skin. “What happened?”

Taking a moment, I stare up at the sky. More stars are slowly coming out, but there’s no moon yet, and the only sound is the lake lapping at the dock.

“I was clearing a compound outside of Mosul,” I say, softly.

“Intel was shit. We thought it was empty. It wasn’t.

” Kristin is still. Only her fingers move to the edge of the scar, then back again.

“We breached the front door. I went left. Heard a sound, saw movement so I cleared the corner. I didn’t see the tripwire until it was too late.

” She makes a soft noise but doesn’t speak.

“Caught most of the shrapnel in my vest, but one piece got through. Tore through my side, nicked my liver. I dropped and thought I was dead.”

Her hand stills. “But you weren’t.”

“No.” I let out a breath. “I was lucky. My squadmate, Matt, he kept pressure on it. Screamed at me to stay awake. I remember thinking he was being dramatic. Then I passed out.”

Kristin leans down and kisses the scar. Just once. A soft press of lips against skin that hasn’t ever been touched like that. It’s not a kiss of sympathy. It’s not pity. It’s something else, something reverent. Like she’s blessing the wound instead of mourning it.

When she lifts her head, I turn to her. “You got any scars?”

She gives me a wry smile. “Not the kind you can see.” I wait.

Let her take her time. After a moment, she sits up, pulling her knees to her chest. Her hair is drying now, curling around her shoulders.

“I was pregnant once,” she says. At her words, I sit up too, resting my forearms on my knees.

“Will and I had been married about a year. I was still in that place where I believed him. Believed us. I thought the baby would make it better. Make him softer. Make me stronger.”

Her voice is steady, but her hands are clenched tight around her shins.

“I lost it at ten weeks. No heartbeat. Just… gone.” I don’t reach for her.

She’s not asking for comfort. She’s offering truth.

“I was devastated. I cried for days. He didn’t.

He told me it was nature’s way of correcting things.

That I shouldn’t get too emotional. That we could try again. ”

I feel my jaw tighten, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

“But now?” She looks out over the lake. “Now I’m grateful.

Not for the loss. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

But for the clarity. If that baby had lived, I’d still be his.

Even more trapped.” Her voice doesn’t shake.

It doesn’t need to. The weight is in the stillness.

It’s in the way she doesn’t blink when she says it, like this truth has become armor she’s forged herself.

“You’re not his,” I say, and she turns to me.

“No. I’m not. But he doesn’t want to accept that,” she says, her eyes angrier now. “And until he does, I can’t be free.”