“I shall take the heart. For brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world.”

---

Unsurprisingly, Duane was in a daze.

But the one point that seemed to make him feel better—or rather, allowed him to focus—was Claire McClure being our half-sister.

Billy drove his truck back to the house, leaving us only after assurances by Duane that he wasn’t going off the deep end. Then, on the ride home, my twin and I discussed a plan for breaking the news to Claire.

“I’m glad you told me before the wedding. With Jess and I leaving Thursday, this might be our only chance to speak to Claire, both of us, in person.” He was rubbing his forehead like it hurt. “But I wish you’d told me earlier.”

Clearing my throat, I readjusted my hands on the steering wheel. “I don’t know why she told me.”

“Who?”

“Christine St. Claire.”

“Oh.” Duane glanced out the window. “She probably wants something.”

“She didn’t want me to tell you.”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Then she definitely wants something.”

I nodded at that.

“Does it matter?” Duane asked. “Does it matter what she wants?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving on Thursday. You’re going to be on your own. We’re both in agreement: she told you the truth because she wants something from you. So my point is, what does it matter what she wants?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“No.” Duane’s response was immediate. “And you shouldn’t be either.”

We drove in silence for a while. Or rather, the interior of the car was silent, but I was pretty sure we were both dealing with noise in our heads.

Duane pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and started typing.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m texting Jess. Telling her to meet me.”

“Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?”

“Home is fine.”

I understood his desire to see her.

I understood needing a safe place to rest your head, and your worries.

And I especially understood how the soft arms of a woman, especially the woman you loved, made everything better.

As though reading my thoughts, Duane said, “I like Shelly.”

“Me too.”

“I think she’s good for you.”

I gave my brother the side-eye. “What do you mean?”

“She’s an interesting sort. She’s . . . tough. But she’s not.”

Shifting in my seat, I turned the GTO into our driveway. “There’s nothing simple about her, that’s for sure.”

Duane was quiet until we parked. But as soon as I cut the engine, he twisted to face me.

“We didn’t really lose anything, did we? Even though it seems like we did, we didn’t lose a thing.”

I knew what he meant, and so I offered him a small smile. “We gained a psychopath for a biological mother. Thinking we can’t overlook that.”

Duane chuckled and then closed his eyes, his face falling back into his hands much like he’d done in the chapel. “You’re right.”

“About what?”

“We need to find out what she wants,” he lifted his head, his eyes turning hard, “Before I go, you and I need to confront her.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I do. You’re going to be in Green Valley without me. I won’t be here, watching out for you, stopping folks from taking advantage. She needs to see she can’t fuck with you, even if I’m not around.”

I gave my brother a wry grin. “You watched out for me?”

“Hell yes, I did. And I always will.”

I shook my head at his stubbornness. Duane’s fervent assertion made me grin despite the situation, but I wouldn’t contradict him. In his own way, I guess he did look out for me.

“So what do we do?” I gathered a deep breath. “Should I call Drill? Ask for a meeting?”

“Yeah. Then we’ll tell her where she can shove her manipulations.”

“I’m guessing it’s someplace without sunlight?”

Duane smirked, but then said, “This is so fucked up.”

“It’s not so bad.” I shrugged.

I wanted to say, At least Razor isn’t our daddy. But I didn’t think Duane would appreciate the words or the sentiment.

“And now we have Claire.” He lifted his head and stared out the windshield.

“That’s right.” I waited until he looked at me to add, “And now she has us.”

---

Shelly, Quinn, Janie, and Desmond arrived at the reception about half an hour after it started. I immediately intercepted them. As soon as I spotted her hovering by the entrance, I realized I’d been pining for Shelly’s company since leaving her Friday afternoon.

I wondered if I’d carry an ache for her everywhere I went for the rest of our lives. It wouldn’t be so bad, I reckoned, as long as she was always there to ease it.

If any of my brothers, or my sister, were surprised to see us together, they made no note of it.

Except Roscoe.

He’d pulled me to the side and told me I was right; Shelly Sullivan was probably the most beautiful woman in the world . . . over the age of thirty.

I’d rolled my eyes and said a silent prayer for the poor soul who ended up with his stupid ass. She was going to need it.

Over dinner, I filled Shelly in on what had happened with Duane. She in turn brought me up to speed on how the visit with her brother was going. After I left for the rehearsal, she’d gone to her therapy appointment with Dr. West. When she got home, Quinn was passed out on the couch with Desmond, leaving Janie and Shelly to talk.

“She said I’m ‘decidedly different’ than I was before.”

“Oh? How were you before?”

“She said I was a jerk.”

I breathed a startled laugh. “She said that?”

“Yes. She’s very honest. She’s always been very honest. Her honesty has been an inspiration for me.”

“Do you think you were a jerk?”

“Yes. But not because I wanted to be a jerk. I tried to explain to her what it’s like, to be a marionette at the whims of irrational fear, being brainwashed by your own brain.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said she understood that. She told me she guessed that I have OCD, she’s glad I’m in therapy, and getting better. But that I was still a jerk,” Shelly gave me a whisper of a smile, “and now I’m not.”

After dinner, Shelly kept her word and danced with me. We danced to “Uptown Funk,” “Don’t Stop Believing,” and “Shut Up and Dance” without talking. But when the band played “My Girl,” I leaned close to her ear and said, “I’m going to ask you a question, just ’cause I’m curious.”

“Okay. Ask me anything.”

“Why don’t you tell your brother the truth? Why not tell him about your diagnosis? Why not explain the logistics of your fear? How you can’t touch others, but that there’s a Duct Tape solution.”

“Duct Tape solution?”

“You know, a way to get around fixing something until you have time to fix it, a workaround. If he knew you needed him to initiate touch first, then I’m sure he’d be giving you hugs all the time.”

“I don’t want him to do that.” She shook her head, visibly frustrated. “It’s my problem. I’ve already asked too much of my family. You heard my brother, they’ve twisted themselves into enough knots. I can’t have them changing their healthy behavior to accommodate my unhealthy behavior.”

“Playing devil’s advocate here, but you do it with me, don’t you? I’m always the one touching you first, aren’t I?”

She considered me for a moment. “Are you upset by that?”

“Not at all, especially since I know your situation. I know your diagnosis, I know I’m a priority to you, and I know you’re working on your refrigerator.”

Shelly gave me an almost smile, her gaze searching mine. “I guess, to answer your question, things are different with us. I’ve spent a lifetime lying to my family. Trying to avoid disappointing them, trying to explain away my actions with lies, or at least conceal them. But I’ve never lied to you. I’ve tried really hard to be honest from the beginning.”

“Sometimes brutally honest.”

“Yes. Lying is wrong. I’ve stopped lying. I can’t do it at all anymore, because it’s a slippery slope for me. White lies become big lies and I don’t want to live like that. But I was also honest with you—sometimes oversharing—because I liked you so much. You needed to know the truth so you could decide.”

“Decide if I wanted to be with you?”

“More specifically, decide if I am capable of giving you what you need.” Shelly’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I’ll be fighting against my OCD for the rest of my life. I don’t know if I’ll have children, but—”

“You want kids?”

“Yes. Absolutely. But should I?”

I considered the question while she watched me, a new intensity behind her eyes. “This seems like a question for us to discuss with Dr. West.”

Her sad smile returned. “Is that okay with you? That, if you stay with me, these questions about our future are always going to involve my therapist?”

“Honestly, yes.” I nodded heartily. “I like Dr. West. It’s like having a—a—a relationship coach. Or a good mechanic on staff, keeping our engines cool and well oiled.”

Shelly’s smile became less sad. “I’m really glad you feel that way, because I will probably be in therapy forever.”

“I’m proud of you for making it a priority.” I kissed her lips, just barely, just a tease.

As I leaned away, she shook her head at me. “Let’s talk about something else. Yesterday was . . . intense. Let’s talk about something fun.”

I grinned. “Oh. I know, let’s talk about how you’re in love with me.”

She stumbled, stepping on my foot, clearly not expecting my new choice of subject.

“So you were planning on saving the news? Doing something special?”

Shelly breathed out through her nose and glanced beyond my shoulder. “Yes.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I already started working on it.”

“On what?”

Her eyes came back to mine. “Don’t you want to be surprised?”

“No, thank you.”

She slid her teeth to the side, inspecting me. “Fine. I’m casting you a replica of your car, with us inside, with a hood that opens, connected to a speaker, with a circuit that trips when you open the hood.”

“To a speaker?”

“Yes. It sings Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You.” But starts at the part where the drum beats and then she belts out the chorus.”

“You mean that Dolly Parton song?”

Shelly looked almost offended. “No. Not Dolly Parton, Whitney Houston. From The Bodyguard? You know, BAM, And I-I-e-e-I-I-e-e-I-I will a-a-al-l-l-lways love y-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-u!”

Listening and watching her as she sang had me pressing my mouth into a tight line, because Shelly had a terrible singing voice. Really terrible. Like, it was a good thing her dogs weren’t close by, because they’d think she was howling.

But the sentiment made an impact nonetheless.

She got a few looks. We both did. But she ignored them like she didn’t even see people staring at her. And if it didn’t bother her, then it didn’t bother me.

When she stopped, she looked at me, unembarrassed and clearly interested in my thoughts. “Should I still do it?”

“Yes. Definitely. But only if you sing the song.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. I want your voice singing to me every time I lift your hood.”

She smiled, but then her brow drew together, like something had just occurred to her. “That was an innuendo.”

“Correct.”

Shelly grinned. “It was a good one.”

“Thank you. I’m full of them.”

“Or full of it.”

“Oh!” Burn.

“See what I did there?” She looked proud of herself, her smile growing.

Laughing, I shook my head at her. She wasn’t laughing, but she was grinning widely when I felt a tap on my arm. Quinn stood at my side, his hands in his pockets. And for the first time since meeting him, he was looking at me with a smile.

Granted, it was the world’s smallest smile. It was probably in The Guinness Book of World Records for smallest curve of the mouth possible. But it was there, behind his eyes mostly, and it surprised me.

“Hey Beau.” His tone wasn’t deadpan and it wasn’t aloof, which meant it was damn near friendly.

“Hey Quinn.” I stared at him with wide eyes.

“Can I cut in?”

I nodded on instinct. “Sure.” And almost regretted my thoughtlessness when I felt Shelly stiffen. But quick thinking had me reaching for Quinn’s hand and placing it in his sister’s.

She might not be ready to tell him the truth about her disorder, but I figured there was nothing wrong with me smoothing the road in small ways.

“I’ll be back.” Stepping away, I gave Shelly a quick, clandestine smile of encouragement.

She looked anxious, but not fearful. She also looked grateful. Then her gaze moved to her brother’s and she gave him the world’s second smallest smile. Which only made his grow.

I didn’t know if they were going to stand there smiling at each other or dance. It didn’t matter which, just as long as they were together.

Turning, I strolled off the dance floor, good feelings carrying me across the room to the open bar. As soon as I stepped into the line for a drink, Duane appeared at my elbow, pulling at the bowtie around his neck.

“Is that the Rolex Hank gave you?” He tapped my wrist, frowning at it.

I glanced at the watch face, solid gold set with diamonds. I hadn’t worn the thing since receiving it for my birthday two years ago. I figured if I couldn’t wear it to a wedding, then when could I wear it? What good was owning things you never used?

But now I was having fancy-watch regret.

“Yeah. I have to admit, it’s heavier than I remembered. I feel like I’m lifting weights every time I bend my elbow.” I wished I’d replaced the band with a leather one.

He grunted noncommittally. “You should melt it down, the band I mean, and make it into something for Shelly. It’s got to be six ounces or more. With that much gold you could make it into a lot of things for her.”

I stared at my brother. I stared at him for several seconds. Because his suggestion gave me an idea. And he was a genius.

Genius.

“Duane.” I brought my hand to his shoulder. “You’re a genius.”

“So everyone says,” he grumbled distractedly, searching the reception tent.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you text Drill?” He shot me a stern look.

“I did. I messaged him last night. I told him I wanted a meeting with Christine on Monday.”

“He respond yet?”

“Yep. It’s all set. Monday night, Cooper’s Field.”

I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Christine again, and I hated that Duane was going to spend any of his remaining time dealing with the woman, but it would be good to set her straight. Whatever she wanted, she was barking up the wrong tree.

“Good.” Duane nodded once, turning his attention back to the reception. “Where is she?” He didn’t sound upset. Anxious and excited, but not upset.

He didn’t need to tell me he was referring to Claire.

“I saw her earlier talking to Sienna.” I lifted my chin toward Jethro and my new sister-in-law. “She couldn’t have gone far.”

We both took a minute to scan the reception, and as I did so, I indulged in a few seconds of watching Shelly and Quinn. They weren’t smiling anymore, but they were talking—like they were discussing something of intense fascination to them both—and that made me smile.

“There she is.” Duane hit my shoulder. “She’s talking to Cletus.”

“Let’s get her.” I rubbed my hands together.

“Don’t be a dummy. I don’t want to freak her out.”

I grinned, hitting Duane on his shoulder. “Freak her out? Are you kidding? This will make her year. Look as us. She’s getting two brothers out of this deal, both handsome devils. Except . . .” I faked a thoughtful frown, my fingers coming to my nose.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Do you think she’ll still love me even though my face is crooked?”

Duane lifted an eyebrow, like he was not amused. “Shut up, dummy. Let’s go—hey, it looks like she’s leaving.”

My twin darted forward, weaving deftly through the crowd toward Claire as she wove deftly through the crowd toward the exit. I followed at an equally hurried pace, a knot of concern forming in my throat that we might not reach her in time. I hadn’t expected her to leave so early.

But then Duane called, “Claire! Wait!”

And she turned, her eyes searching the tent like she wasn’t sure she’d heard her name. When she spotted us approaching, the side of her mouth curved in a way that reminded me of myself when I was preparing to turn on the charm.

“Well, hello boys. What’s up?” She folded her arms across her chest.

“We need to talk to you.” Duane’s tone was severe, as usual.

I took it upon myself to step forward and return her half smile, trying to soften the message. “We’d like a few moments of your time, before you go.”

“Uh,” Claire’s attention affixed to a spot over my shoulder, and then returned to Duane. “Sure. That’s fine.” She looked and sounded like she was forcing cheerfulness.

I glanced behind me, searching for the source of her distraction, and saw Billy several feet away talking to Daisy Payton’s oldest daughter, Daniella.

Huh. I forgot they knew each other.

“Can we talk privately?” Duane’s voice was still gruffer than it needed to be. “I think we can use the house, as no one should be inside. Or we could use the carriage house?”

“Carriage house sounds fine.” She seemed to shake herself, rebooting her smile so it was more genuine. “Is this about Jessica?”

“No.” Duane reached for her hand and I think that startled her a little, but she let him bring it to his arm just the same. “This is about us. All of us.”

“Oh?” Now we had her full attention.

Following Duane’s lead, I took her other hand and brought it to my arm, the three of us strolling out of the tent. “Claire, we have some good news and some bad news.”

“Good Lord, tell me the bad news first.”

“I like the bad news first, too.” Duane gave her a smile, or his version of one. “We have that in common.”

Claire wrinkled her nose at Duane. “Why’re you acting so funny? You fellas want to borrow money? I didn’t bring my purse, but I have a few dollars in my pocket.”

We made it a few feet from the tent, far enough away to be free of the crowd, but not so far that the music had completely faded. “The Way You Look Tonight,” had just started up and I made a note of it. I also made a note of the color of the sky, and the dot on Claire’s cheek that was too dark to be a freckle.

This is my sister.

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “We don’t want to borrow any money.”

She glanced at me, giving me the side-eye. “You can’t have my car.”

I opened my mouth to tell her we didn’t want her car, but then wondered aloud, “I thought you had a truck?”

“I did, but I sold it. I needed better gas mileage.”

Duane and I shared a look.

“What do you drive now?”

I needed to talk to Duane about his questioning technique. The man seriously could not ask a question without making it sound like an interrogation.

“A Hyundai.”

“What’s the year?” Another demand.

“Calm your shit, Duane.” I sent my brother a look.

She glanced between us like she was equal parts amused and confused. “It’s a 1999.”

“Oh no,” we both said in unison.

But I cut off my brother before he could launch into a tirade about early model Hyundais. “We’ll take care of that. What you need is a Toyota.”

“A Toyota?” Duane sneered. “No. She’ll take the Mustang.”

He meant Jessica’s car, the one he’d rebuilt from scratch and loved almost as much as his Road Runner.

“What are y’all talking about?” She pulled us to a stop, splitting her glare between us. “I do not need a new car, and I certainly do not need a Winston telling me what to do. So why don’t y’all come out with whatever it is you need to say? I have a long drive back home and my feet hurt in these shoes.”

Duane and I shared a third look over her head and our silent conversation went something like this:

Duane: You want to tell her, or should I?

Me: I should do it.

Duane: You’re probably right, you’re much better with this kind of stuff.

Me: Thanks, Duane.

Duane: No problem, Beau.

Turning my attention back to Claire, I gave her a warm smile.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re scaring me, Beau.”

“Don’t be scared.” My grin widened, and I chuckled at her expression.

“It’s not scary,” Duane confirmed. “It’s good.”

“Okay.” Her lips twisted to the side. “What is it?”

“Claire, here is the bad news first. We’ve lost out on years. Ain’t nothing we can do about that.”

“Uh . . . okay?”

“Now here is the good news.” I gathered a deep breath, allowing my gaze to move over her face so I could remember this moment. “Your momma—Christine—had an affair with Darrell.”

“That’s the good news?” She was sorta looking at me sideways now, like she didn’t know what to make of me.

I gentled my tone, keeping hold of her eyes. “It’s good news because it means you’re our sister.”

She flinched, and all the color drained from her face. “What?”

“You are our sister.”

Instead of happy, she looked incredibly distressed. “Is this a joke?”

Duane and I shared a glance of alarm over her head, then Duane placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Darrell is my father?” The question sounded strangled, high-pitched with intense grief and a shade of terror.

“No. No, no, no,” I rushed to explain. “Darrell is our father. Christine is our biological mother. Your daddy is—uh—Razor.”

Her wide stare moved between us, her mouth gaping, until finally she closed her eyes and said on an exhale, “Oh thank God.”

She looked close to fainting, so I put my arm around her waist and brought her forward for a hug. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. This is good news, right?”

Claire nodded, her fingers gripping my sleeves at my biceps. “Just—just give me a minute. I’m sorry, I thought you were saying Darrell was my—that I’m related to all y’all and I—” She shook her head, like she wasn’t able to finish the thought.

“Nope. Just us two.” Duane shoved his hands in his pants pockets, sending me a grim glare. “And we hope that you’ll see this as good news in time.”

She leaned away from me, again her gaze bouncing between us. But instead of worry and grief, this time her eyes were filled with dawning comprehension and wonder.

“Oh, oh yes!” Her grin was huge and she laughed, releasing me and pulling Duane into a hug. “I can’t believe this. I just—it’s a lot to absorb.”

The strain in Duane’s features melted away as they hugged, and when she pulled back he gave her a rare smile. “We wanted to tell you, before Jess and I left.”

She nodded, her expression still hazy, like she was trying to keep up. “Thank you, yes. Thank you. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“We were, too.” I reached for her hand again, bringing it back to my arm, leading her once again to the carriage house. “Can you stay for a bit? Do you have time to talk?”

“Of course. Of course I do.” She was staring forward, allowing herself to be guided, a small frown on her features. “I can’t believe this. Are you sure?”

“We haven’t had the DNA test done yet, but we do have the adoption paperwork listing your momma as our biological parent. I know it’s a lot to think over. I just found out yesterday.” Duane resumed his position, bringing her other hand to his arm, so the three of us were linked again.

“This is nuts. I can’t—I mean—how did you find out? And—gosh—who else knows?”

I patted her hand, bringing her attention back to me. “We’ll get to all that, but before we do, can we talk about your car situation again?” Looking to Duane, he gave me a nod of agreement. “What kind of car would you like? Let’s start there.”

Her gaze sharpened. “I know how you boys operate. You’re not giving me a car.”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Duane cautioned, his tone thoughtful, and sent me a furtive grin. “Really, you’d be doing us a favor by taking one off our hands.”

---

Shelly and I didn’t make it home until late.

The three of us—Duane, Claire, and I—talked in the carriage house for about an hour. She’d agreed to stick around until after the wedding was over, so we could spend time discussing what it meant, being related to each other.

We knew Claire, she’d been a presence in our lives since we could remember. So it wasn’t as if we needed to play one hundred questions to learn who she was, and who we were. But we made sure we had each other’s cell numbers, and that she could contact us anytime she needed anything.

She knew we had Ashley, who loved to mother us, but it was incredible how easily she stepped into the same role of big sister. In some respects, it surprised the hell out of me. In others, given how close she was to two of our brothers, it made perfect sense.

She . . . she fits.

Once Jethro and Sienna left and the crowd began to thin, Claire, Duane, Jess, Shelly, and I left for Hank’s McMansion on Bandit Lake. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go that wouldn’t be either awkward or too small.

No one, not even Duane, seemed surprised I had keys. Which made sense. Hank and I were best friends, after all. I decided to keep the news of Hank’s recklessness—signing the place over to me—to myself for the time being.

The house was fully equipped. Claire agreed to stay the night and spend Sunday with us. Jess and Duane took another of the rooms after I assured them that Hank wouldn’t mind, nor would he notice.

But I decided to take Shelly home. I knew she liked her own space—free of clutter, and her books with their blue spines. And we had Oliver, Laika, and Ivan to consider. She’d been quiet during most of the evening, but didn’t hesitate adding her thoughts to the discussion when Jess brought up art installations in Chicago and New York.

I’d been grateful to Jess, for picking topics she knew Shelly would be interested in. It really was too bad Jess and Duane were leaving so soon.

We pulled into Shelly’s drive well after midnight. The short trip home had been a quiet one, and I’d felt her eyes off and on, like she was debating something, or trying to work up the nerve to ask me a question.

When I turned off the engine, and our only company was the quiet night and each other, I turned to her and asked softly, “What’s going on?”

She shook her head, studying me. I couldn’t have been more than a shadow to her, maybe a silhouette, but I saw her. Not the color of her eyes, or her lips, or her dress, but I saw what mattered.

“What is it?” I reached out, cupping her face, tracing the pad of my thumb along her cheekbone and lips.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered, unbuckling her seatbelt and turning toward me. She leaned forward, searching for my mouth, her aim slightly off. Keeping my hand on her cheek, I guided her and she let me, a burst of heat radiating through my body as our lips met and mated. Hers soft—so soft—and hot as they teased mine.

Shelly trailed her fingers down the front of my shirt, untucking it when she came to my pants. As we kissed I felt her hands unbuckle my belt, unbutton my fly, unzip my pants.

I leaned my mouth away, searching her face in question. “Do you want to go inside?”

She shook her head, retaking my mouth, pushing her hand into my boxers and giving me a confident stroke. I released a ragged breath against her lips. She stroked me again.

“Lift your hips.”

I did. She pushed my pants and boxers down to my thighs, circling me again with her fingers.

“Shelly.” I was out of breath.

“Keep touching me.” She turned her head, sucking my thumb into her mouth and swirling the tip with her tongue while pumping me slowly.

Then she let go and I felt the loss of her touch everywhere. Yet, she didn’t withdraw. She shifted her weight, bringing her knees to the seat and hiking up her dress. In the next moment, she’d straddled my lap, rubbed her body against mine and guided me inside.

Holyfuckingshit. This will never get old.

We both breathed out on a rush, her forehead coming to mine.

“Fuck, Shelly. So good.”

“Mmm,” was her mumbled reply, which made me smile.

My hand slid to her neck, curling around her shoulder. I needed purchase, something to hold. Then Shelly tilted her hips just so, a gentle torment, a cruel indulgence.

I couldn’t move, not how I wanted. She was in control of our pace and apparently she wanted to go slow. Her rolling back . . . and forth was a special kind of torture. I needed more, more of her skin. Trailing the back of my fingers to her chest, I brushed my knuckles against the fabric over her tight nipple.

Her fingers shifted from my shoulders to the buttons of her dress, their movements jerky and urgent even as she maintained her agonizingly deliberate rhythm.

I grabbed her hands, bringing them to the headrest behind me. Setting to work on her buttons, I slipped them open at the same unhurried pace she employed.

“Faster,” she demanded.

My jaw was clenched against the effort of keeping still, of letting her ride me.

The strain of not taking over, rolling her onto her back and driving into her like I wanted—like I needed—was akin to walking a tightrope between heaven and hell. My legs burned. The base of my spine ached.

“Please.” She came down harder, her hips jerking.

I’d just unfastened the button at her stomach when she grabbed the edges of the fabric and tugged roughly. She unhooked her bra in the front, tore it open, grabbed my hands, and brought them to her breasts.

Her breath hitched, her eyes closed, and her face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and anguish.

“I love you.” She confessed on a breath, “I—”

I captured the rest of her words with a kiss, unable to help myself. And then, as I tugged her nipples, a sharp sound of gratification wrenched from her throat. I captured that too, wanting it all.

She was coming. Hard. Her body bowed, her short nails digging into my hands where she held them. I felt it—every spasm, every tremor—and the back of my throat burned with the need to take over.

“Beau,” gasping for breath, her forehead fell to my shoulder, “That was—”

With one frenzied movement, I lifted her from my lap to the bench seat beside me, tugging her legs so she was lying down, and spreading her wide, ripping her flimsy lace underwear from her body in the process.

“We’re not done.” I climbed on top, one knee on the seat, my other leg braced on nothing. I buried my face in her breasts, licking and biting and tasting each inch. Her fingers anchored into the back of my head and she arched her back.

It was now hot in the car. Hot and muggy. The windows were fogged. I hit my head on the ceiling of the car, trying to position myself.

Shelly laughed, then moaned as I fingered her, sliding my hand down the inside of her thigh to hook around her knee.

“Move this leg.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Wearing a look of concentration, she folded it up to her chest. “How is that?”

I eased forward carefully, exhaling my relief to be inside her. She gave me a sweet sound, one of pleasure and mindlessness.

Finally, driving into her like I’d wanted, like I’d needed, I answered, “Fucking fantastic.”

There was nothing slow about the pace I set, but it was deliberate. She was pushed up each time I thrust and had to brace her hands against the door to keep from hitting her head. And her breasts? Fucking amazing as they bounced and teased me. The way Shelly bit her bottom lip—and the moans and pants—told me she didn’t mind.

And when her sharp cry pierced the car, I sucked her bottom lip into my mouth, needing the taste of her on my tongue as I came along with her, mindlessly grunting as I curved my body over and inside hers.

I’d like to say I didn’t collapse, crushing her beneath me. But I did. My cheek pressed against her bare breast and I struggled to breathe, to think, to move.

I couldn’t.

At least, not for a while.

Her fingers in my hair, caressing my temple and jaw, eventually woke me to the moment. And then her words did.

“You never cuss, except when we have sex. Then you cuss a lot.”

I blinked. “Does it bother you?”

“No. Do you think I should switch to a blend of almond milk and coconut milk?”

I grinned, shaking my head at her randomness—as much as I was able—and moved to sit up.

“Don’t,” she held me tight, “not yet.”

“Your leg?”

“It will recover.”

I chuckled, forcing her to let me go, and kissed both her breasts on my way up. I helped her straighten and move her leg, gave her a hand so she could sit up, and then I restored my pants. I didn’t bother to button them, though.

I was too busy watching. Her dress was still gaping open, as was her bra. The skirt around her hips showcased her long legs and the triangle of tantalizing hair at the apex of her thighs. Yet she paid no mind.

She was searching the car for something, apparently oblivious to her state of undress. “Do you have any napkins in here?”

“You are so fucking sexy, Shelly Sullivan.”

Her eyes moved to my face, and I remembered that she couldn’t see me, not with the windows fogged and the waning moon.

“I’m glad you think so, Beau Winston. Because I think you’re so fucking sexy, too.”

I grinned at that.

But she wasn’t finished yet. “I want you to love me always.” Her tone was contemplative as she opened the glove compartment, finding her napkin. “How can I make sure that happens?”

Reaching for one of the open flaps of her dress, I tugged her forward, kissed her soft mouth, then slid my nose along hers, whispering, “You keep being you, that’s all you need to do.”