(Amber)
“I saw your face so clear and bright, I must have been crazy but it sure felt right, I just wanted to see you so bad.”
—LUCINDA WILLIAMS, “I JUST WANTED TO SEE YOU SO BAD”
If someone were to ask what my strengths are, a few things come to mind.
Dependability. Persistence. Self-reliance.
One trait that doesn’t make the list? Patience. Only when I’m in the field doing whatever it takes to stay put and keep quiet does patience become me. In every other area of my life, I hate waiting—especially for things I want. And right now, I want Braden.
He’s due here at any moment, but after spending the last few weeks apart, with only phone calls and texts to keep us connected, I’m jonesing. Not to mention that I just turned in the final cut of my elk hunt in all its unsuccessful glory to the programming heads at the Afield Channel, and I desperately need a distraction while we wait to hear back. The distraction I want is six five with sage-green eyes and an occasionally bad attitude I love figuring out how to make disappear.
I spent the morning cleaning up my house. Once that was in order, I set about prettying up my person—curling irons, razors, loofahs, and tweezers were involved—only to end up plopped on my couch in front of the television for the last hour. I’d hoped a little daytime TV might provide some mindless amusement, but instead I’ve found myself caught up in this soap opera, confused and full of questions.
First off, were soap operas always this poorly acted? Pretty sure I was a teenager the last time I sat through one of these, but I don’t remember it being this bad. The story lines haven’t changed much, though. Which begs the question: Why are people always stealing someone’s baby? Taking care of a baby is hard work. How come they never steal their dog? Or their car? Their ATM PIN? Or all three? Put the dog in the car and drive to the ATM. Boom. You’re golden until they shut off the account.
My imaginary crime spree comes to a halt when the sound I’ve been waiting for hits my front door. The unmistakable knock of a big, similarly impatient, man. I leap up from the couch and give my favorite halter sundress a quick smooth-out with my hands and then shove my feet into the cute heels that go perfectly with this dress. The heels are high and my hemline is, too. If I do say so myself, for reasons both fashion and carnal, I’m good to go.
When I open the door, my favorite fix is standing there with a duffel bag cast over one shoulder and his dog sitting obediently at his feet. Braden’s eyes glide over me with a mix of awe and frustration. I return his inspection with my own, fascinated at the way seeing Braden again inspires the exact same sort of woozy appreciation it did the first time I saw him. He’s glowering as he did that first day, but I now know what comes with that look. I also know the exact breadth and power of his body in ways I didn’t before. Which means if I were to topple onto him today, it sure as hell wouldn’t be an accident, just my hormones getting two steps ahead of me.
“An hour ago, when I was sitting in traffic outside Fort Worth, I was questioning my sanity. Trying to figure out what in the fuck I was thinking by asking my boss for time off with basically no notice, then loading up my dog and driving sixteen hours across three states.” He shakes his head slowly. “One look at you and I have my answer.”
I give him a sly smile. “Feeling a little live-wired?”
“You have no idea.”
“Oh, I think I do.” I swing the door open wider and encourage Charley inside, then bend over to give her a good nuzzling.
Behind me, Braden groans loudly—my high hemline and all—as his bag thumps to the floor and the door shuts with a heavy thud. Still leaning down, I peek over my shoulder. Braden’s gaze is glued to my backside, his eyes hazy and unfocused.
“Charley could use some time outside,” he states. An obvious addendum that Braden could use some time inside goes unsaid.
I whistle to encourage Charley to follow me over to the slider door at the rear of the house and she bolts straight outside, diving on a plush dog toy that’s in the middle of the yard, which keeps Trey’s dog occupied when he’s here. Charley circles the perimeter, takes a drink from the water bowl I set out for her, and goes about frolicking on her back in the grass.
“Water, a new yard, and a toy,” Braden says, his arms slipping around my waist. “She’ll be happy for hours.”
I hum softly. Braden wastes no time after that, his hands drift down until he can slide them under my dress, lingering on the backs of my thighs. His face presses into my neck, kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Between kisses, he grips my thighs harder, digging his fingers in with a bite that promises more. His mouth finds the shell of my ear.
“So glad we talked before I came. I love that we don’t have to stop, even for a second.”
I, in my infinite wisdom, broached the all-important let’s go without conversation the night before he started his drive here. We talked about birth control and clean bills of health, and admitted to not seeing anyone other than each other—and more important, not wanting to see anyone else. Which means we get to have all the fun, without delay, the entire time he’s here.
Braden starts to work my panties down my legs and when I step from them, I spin on my heel to face him putting an open hand to his chest so I can urge him farther into the house. I don’t live in a penthouse in the sky, I live in an old-town suburb with low fence lines and oodles of neighbors who work from home. And as much as I’d like to have Braden press me up against the cool glass, I’m not interested in putting on a show for the entire ’hood.
His back hits a wall in the living room. Braden eyes me intently and waits for my next move, his breath turning harsh as I undo his belt and work his pants open, pausing before tugging down his boxers and taking him in hand. One stroke and he snaps, reversing our positions. His hands come to cup my ass, grinding the length of our bodies together before giving mine a lurch upward with the power of his, taking me off my feet for a split second. When my feet find the ground again, one of his hands moves between my legs, sliding two fingers across my slippery opening. Once, twice, three times.
“I need you, Amber. And I want this pussy. Now.”
I lean up and take his earlobe between my teeth gently, then flick that spot with my tongue. “Then take it.”
Braden lifts me up, my feet off the floor in one smooth move, using the wall behind to keep me in place. I twist my hips impatiently. Braden leans back a fraction so he can guide my body to his, and then he’s deep. We both lose our breath for a moment at the delicious sensation of nothing between us.
Braden kisses me, soft and slow. Mid kiss, he starts to move in long, deep strokes that quickly grow rough and punishing. Gripping his shoulders means I can press my body to the wall, and the way my hips pitch means he lands right where I need him to. A few thrusts are all it takes. My body goes taut but Braden keeps on, wrenching every bit of pleasure out of my body—and his—that he can.
When we both start to catch our breath, I work my hands through his hair.
“I have plans for us, Braden. I’m going to make this trip so worth it.” I give his hair a little tug and he lets out a satisfied hiss. “We’re going to pop your Texas culinary cherry by getting brisket at Franklin Barbecue, go paddleboarding at Quarry Lake, and Trey told me about a vintage store I think you’re going to love. Lots of dusty books and old LPs. Oh, and there’s a distillery on Rainey Street that has the best whiskey in—”
“Stop,” Braden cuts in, letting out a low chuckle, one I can feel radiate from his chest to mine. “No need to try so hard, baby. You make the trip worth it. Already. Just you.”