Page 41

MERIT

My heart sours.

If it weren’t trapped in my body, held captive by my ribcage, I literally think it would fly into the Heavens. Float into the atmosphere, powered simply by love and pride.

“Son…” I do my best to keep my voice strong and stable, but I’m fighting a losing battle. It cracks more than a sidewalk upheaved by tree roots. “It’s amazing. You...” I trail off again, letting my words disappear into the beautiful spring day, and I quickly wipe the tears flowing down my face before turning to look at my oldest child. “Your grandfather would be so very proud of you. You’ve done things he never even dreamed possible.”

Daire looks around, quirking a satisfied smile at the newly completed bunkhouse. Situated directly across from the main house, and separated by the driveway, the student lodging looks like it’s always been here. Always been a part of the farm, always been a part of our lives. And I guess calling it a bunkhouse is oversimplifying it; my son pulled out all the stops for the future students he plans to teach.

Teach?

Train?

“What, Momma? I know the look that’s on your face, and there’s something you don’t understand, isn’t there?”

I snort on a giggle. At least my baby boy—who’s not a baby anymore—doesn’t conceitedly gloat about the fact that he can read my face like a book.

Much unlike my husband.

The famous Holt Hill still likes to brag about how much he can read me…even after all these years.

“Technically, are you gonna be their teacher? You’ll give them a grade and everything?”

“No, I’m just their employer, their boss. Once a college approves me,” he tosses his hand behind him at the never-ending acres of Bermuda. “Approves the farm, I mean, I can pick when and where I get interns. Most of the time, it’ll be for somewhere between ten and twelve weeks. There will be paperwork I have to fill out for their professors, though. I have to confirm they’re meeting benchmarks and everything. But I’m paying them.” Giving the shiny, new building one last admiring look, he cocks his fingertips on his hips and fiddles with the walkie-talkie attached to his belt. “But I’ll be paying them—and providing them with housing and a damn good portion of homecooked meals—so make no mistake, they’re my employees. And if they don’t do right by this farm, their ass will be on the chopping block.”

Holt walks up behind Daire and plants a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. “Of course, they’ll do right by you, son. You’re not only the best farmer I’ve ever known, but the best businessman too.”

Daire chuckles and side glances at Holt. “Dad, you’ve only known two farmers—me and Pa. In fact, Pa’s probably rolling over in his grave knowing that you just called me better than him.”

Despite the lighthearted tease in Daire’s mannerisms, it’s hard to miss the emotion clogging his throat, making it difficult to speak. Standing before me is a twenty-five-year-old man who inherited the struggles and rewards of farm life much too soon when my father passed away three years ago. What the two of them did together to grow the farm is nothing short of spectacular—especially considering Daire graduated high school at sixteen and moved down here to work full time, gifting my father with the blessed burden of raising a teenager again.

Gifting him with the opportunity to watch one of his Daires grow into adulthood.

Of course, I was never far behind. Come hell or high water, I was never going more than ten days without seeing my baby. Which was sometimes hard to do when carting around Vera and Adam. And keeping up with not only their bevy of activities, but Holt’s game schedule and the day-to-day operations of two stores. But I did it.

Because I love him. More than life itself.

Holt lovingly and unashamedly pats our son’s dirty and grizzled cheek. “Deke saw it in you, Daire. He saw it the very first time you were old enough to toddle around this grass. You’re his brightest star, his most vivid dream. So, trust me, he is most definitely not turning over in his grave.”

Not giving me a chance to collapse on the ground and roll around in a pile of tears and snot—like I’m about to do—Holt skirts around Daire and gives me a quick kiss on the temple. “The truck is packed. It’s time to head out.”

Well, shit.

Now, I really am gonna cry.

Daire’s boisterous laugh takes me by surprise, and he pulls me into his arms, covering me in his sweat and dirt and love. “Momma, I’m a grown man. You don’t have to cry every single time you leave me. Besides, I know you, and I know you’ll come up with some sort of excuse to visit in a couple of weeks.”

“Well, I do need to bring down some more of Adam’s clothes. Since he had that last growth spurt, hardly any of his old clothes fit him. And if I leave him in charge of packing, he’ll show up for the summer work with nothing but a pair of swim trunks and a pack of gummy worms.”

This time the boisterous laugh belongs to Holt. “Mer, he’s eighteen. Not eight. He’s worked here for the past four summers. He knows how to pack a bag.”

I ignore my husband and instead pin my eldest with a death glare.

“And don’t you even think about sticking your brother in that bunkhouse with a bunch of college girls.” I stab my finger in the air, hoping to accentuate the seriousness of the situation. “He’s to stay in the main house, in his normal room.”

“But, Mom—”

“Uh, Daire,” Holt immediately cuts him off, clearing his throat in exaggerated fashion. “It may be wise to let her win this battle.”

I bite back a smile, knowing I have the smartest husband to ever walk the face of the Earth.

Our son drags his fingers across his lips, mimicking the same action he’s seen from Holt one million times, and gives me a simple nod. “Absolutely. Yes, ma’am.”

We say our goodbyes, hopping into the truck and watching in our mirrors as Daire’s frame disappears from view as we wind down the long driveway. I glance at Holt, studying the soft smile playing across his face as he thinks about this past Spring Break week we spent at the farm with Daire. We helped with the final touches of the new building, in addition to the normal farm work, of course.

Beams of sunlight filter through the trees, flashing across Holt’s features like bursts of fireworks. I was right. Back when we were young and fresh in love, I said Holt would always be handsome, always be attractive, always be hot.

And I was right. More than right.

At fifty-seven, he looks basically the same as he did that fateful day when he came into my store to buy Anna’s purple tennis shoes. There’re small differences, sure; but his essence is the same. He has more laugh lines on his face, and his crow’s feet run a little deeper and a little longer. His blond waves have darkened a smidge and are intertwined with thin strips of white and gray. And don’t even get me started on how sexy his facial scruff looks, peppered with those same flecks of snow.

He’s still coaching, still running the football, and still kicking ass over his teenage players in the gym. So, yes, there may be a millimeter of soft skin around his waist—a millimeter that wasn’t there the first time I saw him without a shirt—but his abdomen is still lined with muscle. And it calls to me, a constant and silent cry, begging for me to follow those pathways with my tongue.

His calloused hands.

His strong arms.

His graceful speed.

He’s still My Holt.

After all these years.

And more importantly, I’m still His Merit.

It’s been twenty-five-and-a-half years since I forgave him. And it’s been twenty-five-and-a-half years of him loving me like I’m a supernova, feeding light into the darkest realms of the universe.

And yes, we’ve had our fair share of darkness.

Our Gracie.

And then, what we went through with Daire. And I’m not even talking about his kidnapping when he was a baby.

And still, he loved me. He loved me through the numbing darkness, through the blinding pain, through the devastating loss.

And each time, we emerged from the shadows—stronger, more resilient, and deeper in love.

Reaching across the console, he grabs my wrist. Lifting it to his lips, he takes a deep breath, inhaling my scent, before kissing it. “You’re staring at me.”

I nod, overcome with my love for him, with my love for my family. “You’re worth staring at.”

Sighing contentedly, I lean my head against the headrest and snuggle against the leather seat, getting comfortable for the near four-hour drive back home. The end of the driveway is approaching, and I decide to rest my eyes for just a moment, wanting to give myself a minute to lock all of my wonderful memories from this past week into my brain, sear them into my soul. But it’s fine. I don’t need to see where we’re going. My body is so accustomed to this drive, I know exactly what comes next.

A left turn onto the rural highway, where we drive off into the sunset.

Where I then have to listen to Holt complain for two hours straight about how the sun is blinding him and how we should have left an hour earlier to beat this slow and horrific torture of his perfect twenty-twenty vision.

To which I’ll giggle and snort and tease him, and then lovingly and dutifully clean the dirt and smudges off his sunglasses for him.

Shit, we’re getting old. And predictable.

But instead of heading straight to the highway, Holt turns right on one of the farm’s service roads. My eyes snap open, watching as our tires beat the worn path, sending a plume of dust around us.

“Holt? What are we doing?” I ask.

“I just gotta check something,” he says, a little mischief hiding in his tone.

“Check something? What do you have to check?”

He bites his bottom lip trying to keep that sexy and seductive smirk at bay. “Don’t worry, Mer. It won’t take long.”

“Won’t take long,” I repeat, parroting his own words back to him. “What won’t take long? Did Daire need us to check on something out this way?”

Holt side glances at me. Clicking his tongue between his teeth, he taunts me with the words that still pique my curiosity, despite the fact that I’m a grown-ass, middle-aged woman. “Shhh, baby. It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” I spin my head left and right. The service road—and I’m using that term very lightly—has shifted around, taking us back into the heart of the sod farm. This huge tract of land is actually something Daddy and Daire scouted and purchased just a few months before Daddy died. Over the years, as the neighbors surrounding the farm decided to seek the ease of a life closer to the beach, or the comfort of a life closer to the big city, Daddy and Daire bought their land. With, of course, help from the minority owner, the famous Holt Hill.

But they didn’t need Holt’s help or money for long.

Because both Daddy and Holt were right—Daire was made to do this.

And the results of my son’s aptitude are all around me.

Literally.

Our truck is just a tiny speck of metal, lost in the seven-thousand acres of the Browning Sod Farm.

I pin Holt with a stare. “A surprise out here?” I ask again, lacing my voice with urgent need, considering he didn’t answer me before.

“Yep.” He pops the word, echoing it over the hum of the air conditioning and rumble of the engine.

Oh, so this is how he wants to play it.

Coy.

Well, two can play that game, mister.

I sigh like this whole charade doesn’t faze me in the least little bit, ease back from my current position—which happens to be the fucking edge of my seat—and nonchalantly cross my legs. I gaze out the window, trying my best to appear calm and unfrazzled.

Holt bursts out laughing. His calloused hand reaches across, and he tucks his fingers into the crease of my folded legs, giving my skin a playful squeeze. “Don’t you play coy with me, Merit Hill. Your excitement is written all over your face.”

I growl.

Which, of course, makes him laugh even harder.

Turns out, his face-and-mind reading have only gotten better with time. I should be used to it by now. And despite our banter-filled routine, where I act all peeved that he can read me, we both know I love it.

Just as much as I love him.

Holt makes another right, taking us to the Green House. When Daire bought this land, there was an old, one-room cabin on it that had belonged to the original owner. It was built back in the 1890s. It’s strong and sturdy, showcasing a time when handcraftsmanship was the epitome of life. It makes a perfect storage building. I mean, when you’re working as many acres as our son works, having supply storehouses at integral points is a must. And somewhere along the way, someone painted the two-step elevated porch slabs green. That’s why Daire calls it the Green House.

Parking in front of it, Holt quickly turns off the truck and reaches for his door handle.

“The Green House is my surprise?”

My words are cut off by the slamming of his door, and I watch as he rounds the truck, flinging my own door open so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off the hinges and land on the cabin roof. I open my mouth to protest his strange behavior, but my fight is cut short.

He splays a hand across my cheek, his fingers pressing into my jaw and neck, and he crashes his lips onto mine.

And well, since my mouth was already open…you know…

His tongue lashes out, tasting and tangling. I mold myself into his kiss. Instantly. Permanently. Passionately. It happens so quickly that time can’t even be measured. We kiss until the need for unencumbered oxygen becomes a necessity and not just a nuisance.

Reluctantly pulling away, he stares at me. Tenderly running a finger across my flushed cheekbone, he turns his hand and scrapes the pad of his thumb across my swollen lips.

He. Is. Stunning.

One forearm is braced above us, hitched on the roof of the truck. He’s looming over me, consuming my space, watching me with a predatory hunger. Making me feel dominant and submissive—all at the same time.

His traveling hand settles against the curve of my collarbone. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve sank my cock inside of you?”

It’s a rhetorical question, sure. But it’s never one I tire of hearing my husband ask.

“Since I’ve buried my face between your legs?” he continues. “Since I’ve felt your pussy clench around my fingers?”

My heart slaps against my ribcage, pounding a quick and frenzied rhythm. Beating so hard it feels like it’s bruising my sternum.

I shake my head.

“Seven. Fucking. Days.”

I lick my lips. “We’ve gone seven days before.”

His words pour over me like heated honey—sticky and hot and oh, so sweet. “And I don’t intend on making this one of those times.”

Dropping his hand from the roof, he reaches in, unbuckles my seat belt, grabs my thighs, and spins me so my legs are dangling out of the side of the truck. He steps between my thighs. Shoving his fingers into my bra cup, he yanks my tank top and bra down past my right breast in one swift, easy movement. He latches onto my pebbled nipple, sucking and biting with just the right amount of pressure and using his hand to fondle and massage me.

My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging his blond curls, forcing him to take more of my tit in his mouth. My words are scorching syllables, powered by the boiling need deep in my core. “This was my surprise? You being horny? Surely, the famous Holt Hill can do better than that?”

Well, you wanna know what happens when you challenge an athlete?

They turn into machines, hell-bent on winning.

Hmmm. Maybe that was my intent all along.

With a rabid growl, he releases my skin. I’ll be surprised if my breast isn’t bruised with hickeys. He hauls me into his arms, and I quickly wrap my legs around his waist as he slams the door shut with one hand. I weigh a good twenty-five pounds more now than I used to, twenty-five pounds more than the day he sauntered into my store (with fucking Bunny, might I add)—a pound for every year we’ve been married. But he still carries me with ease, still looks at me with hunger in his eyes, still treats me like I’m the most beautiful woman in the Southern Hemisphere.

He treats me like I’m the blood pumping through his heart. Without me, his life doesn’t exist. Without me, he’s a shell.

Without me, there is no him.

His lips graze my ear, his words shooting a shiver down my spine as he takes the steps onto the porch. “Oh, my baby likes to tease her husband? My baby wants to act like her ass wasn’t shoved against my hard-as-fuck dick this morning, just begging for me to slide into her?” He strides over to a wooden worktable that’s tucked against the side of the house, hidden under the shadows of the porch awning. Before setting me down, he rubs his hand back and forth across the wood, making sure it’s free from snags and splinters.

He doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s always watching out for me. Always.

And in this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more.

He circles his thumb around my still-exposed nipple, making my back arch. “My baby wants to act like she doesn’t want this surprise? Doesn’t fucking crave it just as badly as I do?” His voice is low and gloriously tortured.

My hands circle around his broad shoulders, and his body complies with my silent demand, his face inching closer to mine. “I’m not the one who left our bed this morning,” I retort, sitting up straight and planting a kiss against the side of his brow. “This ass might’ve been wiggling on your cock, but you’re the one who left me alone.” I trail my mouth lower, following the sharp curve of his cheek and jaw, relishing in the scratch of his stubble. “All alone. With only my fingers to keep me company. Sir.”

When Holt’s eyes widen in pleasure and the cutest shade of pink colors his face, darkening the freckles across his nose, I bite back a laugh. He rushes to erase the distance between us, eager to capture my lips. I whip my head to the side, unable to stop the giggle and soft snort that roll out of me. “Oh, no. I’m mad at you for leaving me.”

He nuzzles against me, purring like a lion disguised as a kitten. “What choice did I have? Our son needed my help. This farm doesn’t run itself, you know.” He nibbles my earlobe. “Besides, what if he caught us?”

This time I really do laugh. When my head turns back to Holt, our lips brush together, trapping the heat of my breath between us. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” I say.

And, unfortunately, it’s true.

Daire was only eight the first time he caught us, humping like rabbits in the back of our bedroom closet in the middle of the day. Poor kid.

Holt sucks my bottom lip between his, moaning in tandem with me, as the electricity of our connection buzzes through our bodies. Pulling away—just a millimeter—he whispers his truth. “He’s lucky.”

“Daire’s lucky?” I question.

Holt shifts his hands down to my thighs, gliding them underneath the hem of my shorts, barely sneaking his fingertips beneath the elastic of my panties.

So, so close.

Yet…so far away.

Painfully far away.

“He has parents who love each other. Parents who crave each other. Parents who would move fucking mountains to be with one another. The majority of the world can’t say that, Mer. The majority of the world doesn’t have what we have.” He stares into my eyes, and the intensity of his gaze slows my heart. It decelerates until it’s just one long continuous roll of thunder, shaking the walls of my chest, vibrating me with the rain of need and the lightning of passion. “I’m lucky. The absolute luckiest. Your love turned me into a believer. I was unworthy of being your other half, but still you gifted me with your heart. And it’s mine, baby. Until the stars fall out of the sky.”

And with that, he seizes my mouth, showering me with sacred devotion with every stroke of his tongue and nip of his teeth. Tugging his hands from my shorts and stepping between my legs, he slowly lowers me onto my back, chasing my mouth, refusing to separate from me. One palm cradles my head, giving me cushion against the unforgiving wood of the old table while the other teases my nipple, pinching and flicking the sensitive bud. And then he mumbles curses against my lips when my trussed bra starts to get in his way.

He kisses me until my body is so wired and rigid with lust, that I’m about to come just from the thought of having sex with him. With my husband. With My Holt Hill. And as always, his thoughts align perfectly with my own. “Merit, I’m about to fucking come in my shorts. I need you. Now.”

My answer is nothing more than a strangled moan. “Yes.”

He makes quick work of his T-shirt while I toe off my sandals, shrieking and flinching when I kick my right shoe too vigorously and it flips backward in the air careening toward my face. Holt bats it away with his hand before it smashes into me, saving me from a black eye. My strappy little sandal sails across the porch railing and lands somewhere down below.

I offer a basic apology with one simple word. “Oops.”

His husky chuckle is low and heady, his voice laced with humor and love. “You okay?” When I nod, he works his balled-up T-shirt underneath my head, treating it like a pillow. “Here, Mer, put this under you. I don’t want you to bruise the back of your head.”

His fingers nimbly work his belt, and he lowers his cargo shorts and boxer briefs down to the ground. I’m not even sure if he steps out of them or just leaves them tangled around his feet. Because I’m too preoccupied to pay attention to his clothes. In fact, I’m too preoccupied to pay attention to my own clothes—when I know I should. I should be unbuttoning my shorts and sliding them off my body. I mean, technically, I should be concerned with us getting down to business and getting the hell out of dodge. Daire has a lot of employees, and the work day is still in session; someone could come around here at any moment. Someone could see us.

But how can I be expected to worry about strips of fabric and buttons and zippers when Holt is standing in front of me. I perch on one elbow and stare at him—my lover—with his enchanting body just inches away. With his azure eyes, his freckled nose, his corded forearms, his rippled abdomen, and his massive cock. A cock that’s twitching and jumping under the perusal of my eye. A cock that’s thick and long, engorged and tinted red and purple, and glistening with pre-cum.

And then he grabs it. Fucking fisting himself so hard his knuckles turn white.

I whimper.

I actually whimper.

His voice flames my desire, pouring gasoline on the fire burning within me. “You gonna make me do all the work, baby?” He lifts my shirt and trails his rough-hewn fingertips across the soft skin of my stomach. The stomach that’s carried his four children. The stomach that helped bring us back together—when Daire was growing inside. Bending down, he kisses my belly button, moving his mouth lower and lower while he works the shorts off my body. Next come my panties. And this time, he stops at the crest of my pubic bone, suckling my skin so hard my back pops off the table and a hiss drags through my teeth.

My husband is marking me, branding me with his bruise. The exact same way I marked him the first time I went down on him—decades ago in my old room of the Children’s Wing.

Standing straight, he takes a step back and appraises me. His eyes slowly travel the length of my body, from head to toe, absorbing my disheveled appearance.

Messed hair. Bra askew with one breast still hanging free. Naked bottom half. And of course, it’s spring in Alabama. My flabby ass is probably covered in five layers of yellow pollen.

But that doesn’t matter to him.

Because he looks at me like I’m the missing treasure he’s been searching for.

Like I’m the misplaced key that will unlock the sealed door.

Like I’m the lone tree standing after the devastating storm.

“Touch yourself,” he orders. “Put your feet up on that table so I can see all of you and shove your fingers in your pussy.”

I do as I’m my told, driving two fingers into myself, watching him the entire time, my eyes hooded and blurry with the heaviness of eroticism. He grabs himself again, slowly pumping his hand along his shaft, making my mouth water. “Deeper, Merit. Fuck yourself deeper.”

I pull my fingers from my body. Wetness slides from my pussy and down to my ass. His pupils dilate.

“No,” I say.

“No?” He cocks his head, his tone lifting with question.

“No, sir,” I answer, dragging the syllables of one of our favorite words across my tongue…for way longer than necessary. “You want me to be fucked deeper, I suggest you come do it yourself.”

And that’s all it takes.

It happens so quickly I don’t even have time to take a breath, time to brace myself, time to prepare. He slams his cock into me in one perfect, fluid, magnificent movement. My scream crashes into the calm of the sunny day, violently ripping and slicing the air around us. He folds over me, framing his forearms around my head and kisses me, swallowing the cry of my undoing. I fold my legs against his, hooking my ankles around his thighs, forcing him to stay buried in the depths of my body. Begging him to stay where it’s dark and warm and made just for him.

And he does.

Instead of pulling out and pushing back into me, he stays right where he is, pulsing and undulating his body into mine. Making me feel fresh and new. Making me feel like this is the first time we’ve ever made love.

And not the thousandth upon thousandth.

I turn my head slightly, breaking our kiss. Our panted breaths are so hot and fiery that steam forms on our chins. “Tell me.” My whisper is barely audible. But that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to hear my words to hear me.

“I love you, Merit.”

And with that, we both find our release.

Holding onto one another.

Living in each other’s souls.

Living in each other’s eternities.

Being each other’s believers.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this Bonus Epilogue. Believe it or not, I had not planned to write this. Like…at all. But then my wonderful editor, Sweetie Elaine, said she felt Merit needed a voice in the Epilogue. And I knew just where I had to go… back to the sod farm.

Because the time is coming for my Lower Alabama sod farmer to meet his match.

Soon.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll “meet” his match in the Green House too.