CHAPTER THIRTY
RORKE
It’s hateful and rude, but I’ve wished every single one of these well-wishers gone a hundred times. Most of them loved my dad. But if I have to fake smile or thank someone one more damn time, I’m going to fucking lose it.
Sterling’s mom catches me. “I told your mom I’d stay tonight. Go get some sleep.”
That woman is a saint. But it’s not sleep I need. It’s Sterling.
Saying a few more goodbyes and double-checking with my mom, I start searching for Sterling. I can’t believe she thought to sit in the same seat in the church. It was exactly what I needed, to be reminded that I’ve done this before, and I can do it again. To be able to look into her green eyes and see my future. She’s waiting, and I know just where she is.
Heading out the front door, I’m stopped by one final person. But I know this one will be short. It’s Sterling’s dad. He doesn’t believe in wasting words. And this time he only has one. But it’s one that I didn’t think I’d ever hear again.
“Son.”
The bones in my chest start to quake, the grief trapped inside wanting to be freed. My dad would be grateful for that one word. I know it would give him peace. I’m thankful when he pulls me into a quick hug then pats my back, sending me on my way.
Opening the door to the barn, a small light cascades down over her, wrapped in a blanket in a chair next to my bed, fast asleep. So much of this day has been reminiscent of my brother’s death. She gave me what I needed all those years ago. And it wasn’t sex; it wasn’t losing my virginity. It was hope and love and a safe place to land. And here she is, waiting to do it again.
Maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s that I’m finally thinking clearly, maybe it’s Dad and Levi in cahoots up in heaven—but I walk over to her purse, rummaging through it, knowing when my hand lands on the little plastic case.
*
STERLING
My eyes flutter open, landing on Rorke. I try to focus. What the hell? He’s standing with my birth control pills over the trash can. “What are you doing?”
His blue eyes turn to me. “Let’s make a baby.”
“Oh, my God, you are crazy,” I say, leaping to my feet. “You don’t just throw away a woman’s birth control pills without talking to her first. What’s wrong with you?”
“I wasn’t going to throw them out.”
“You’re standing by the trash can.”
“Well, I thought about it, but then realized I better wait if I want to keep my nuts.”
“Good call,” I snap, grabbing them out of his hands. “I’m trying really hard not to be furious at you right now. I know people grieve in different ways, but you’re not thinking clearly.”
“It’s not grief,” he says, placing a gentle hand on my belly. “It’s life.”
So there is the slightest, the tiniest little spark of something in me, feeling his fingers on my stomach. And dammit if he doesn’t sense it.
“We’re getting married in a few weeks. Everyone will assume it’s a honeymoon baby.”
I grab his face, feeling his stubble under my fingertips. “You still want to get married?”
“Of course I do.”
“I just thought you might want to postpone under the circumstances.” Silly me, the man doesn’t want to postpone—he wants to skip ahead to children.
“Ten years ago, when we were in this very spot, I wanted to avoid you getting pregnant at all costs, but now, I don’t want anything but you as my wife, carrying our child.”
Clearly, I’m not going to win an emotional debate, so perhaps I can appeal to his practical side, although I’m not sure he has one at the moment. I motion with my hands. “Where would we even put a nursery?”
“We can add on.”
“You just finished this place. Plus, then I’d be pregnant and living in a dust-filled construction site.”
His eyes narrow just a tad, thinking hard. He better not even be considering us moving in with his mother. I like her, but no way. “We can rent a place while the work’s being done.” Gently, he lowers me to the bed, whispering, “Let’s make some babies.”
Good God, he’s out of control. We went from one baby—singular—to babies—plural—in a nanosecond. “How about we just practice?
He takes the pack of pills from my hand, rolling to his side to place it on the nightstand. When he turns back to me, his fingers go through my hair. I’m not sure if this is a yes to just practicing or him trying to swipe my pills again, but I already took my pill today, so I’m letting it go for the moment.
Aside from the stubble on his face, he looks so much like the teenage boy who looked at me this same way, with an admiration I’d never see again in any other man’s eyes. Sex is always intense with Rorke. It can be fun and fast where we don’t even get all our clothes off. Or it can be like this—a totally different level of intensity. The kind that knows all you have is right now, this moment. There are no breaths to waste, no caresses to take for granted, no reasons to hold back, no excuses. It’s what made Rorke finally reach for me all those years ago. And it’s what’s driving us together now—on this terribly sad day. Love—and the reminder that it can all be gone in an instant.
I reach for the buttons on his shirt, but he catches my fingers, placing a little kiss on the back of each hand, his way of telling me he wants to do all the work. He literally doesn’t want me to lift a finger.
“Let me spoil you,” he whispers, his fingers wandering up my thighs. “Every little inch of you.”
Cupping his face in my hands, I say, “I should be taking care of you.”
“You are,” he whispers.
A wave of tingles rolls up my body.
Standing up, he quickly sheds his clothes. He pulls me to my feet, turning me around so he can slide down the zipper of my dress. His strong hands slip down my body, forcing the material to fall to the floor. My bra and panties meet the same fate. My breathing grows heavy with impatience. The man hasn’t even kissed me yet.
I turn to face him. Holding my eyes, he falls to his knees. His fingers find the back of my knee, his warm breath dangerously close to my skin.
His lips find the skin of my inner thighs, and my head tosses back. What is it about this man that does this to me? Was I made so that only he can please me? Because that’s what it feels like, and he does it so easily.
Burying his head between my thighs, he lifts my leg to his shoulder, deepening his kiss. I need to patent this man’s tongue, but it’s not just that. It’s the stubble on his face causing a slight friction, sending delicious little tingles through my body, and the way his hands massage my inner thighs and ass. Even his breath and groans heighten the sensation.
He pulls back slightly, lowering my leg, encouraging me to sit on the bed, then continues to kiss me until my body quakes. This would usually be when he’d slip himself inside me, but not today. The tan muscles of his body ripple as he crawls over my body, stalking me. His fingers caress me, leaving a hot path in their wake.
When his mouth finds my nipples, my moan is surely too loud, but I’m not in control of my body. He is. And that’s perfectly fine with me. I may have invented Woman on Top, but I really like the man to be in control. Slipping two fingers inside me, he continues to suck, lick, and nibble at my breasts. For such tiny things, they sure pack a punch to my libido.
This time when I come, he slips inside me before my orgasm is even over. My whole body coils around him, my nails digging into the muscles of his back. He waits for me to settle, for my eyes to find his, before rolling us to our sides, and hiking my leg to his hip.
“I like being spoiled,” I flirt.
“I’m just getting started.”
*
Leaning up on my elbow, I watch him sleep. He gave new meaning to the words spoiled rotten last night. No one compared to him as a teenager, but I’m certain that no other man will ever make me feel what he does. He can spoil me anytime, although I really should be the one taking care of him.
“I’m trying to sleep,” he says, his eyes still closed, that southern farm boy grin on his face. I’ve missed that smile. “Stop staring at me.”
“Your eyes are closed. How do you know I’m staring?”
“I just know.” He bursts awake, pinning me to the bed.
My legs spread open, and he sinks between them. “Insatiable.”
Giggling, I roll him off me. “Am not.” His eyes wander the curves of my face, his fingers toying with my hair. My laughter fades, and I do the same thing to him that he’s doing to me. “How are you?” I whisper.
“The sleep helped,” he says. “But the sex helped more.”
“Since you spoiled me last night,” I say, “why don’t you let me spoil you today?”
“I’m the spoiler, you’re the spoilee. Breakfast in bed?”
He plants a quick kiss on my lips before hopping up. I sit up, wrapping the sheet around my chest. His face wrinkles up as he stares into the refrigerator then he turns to me. “Cereal without milk or orange juice.”
We were in New York then his dad died, so he hasn’t exactly gone shopping, but it’s sweet he thought to do this. “Just juice.”
Bringing over a glass, he sits down on the bed, handing it to me. “Wish I could hide in here with you all day.”
“Like when Levi died?” I whisper.
He nods. “Sterling, I can’t move to New York. Even if I did get a job offer, I can’t leave my mom, not right now, not so soon.”
“I know, and I understand.” He looks away, his blue eyes searching. “Just say it,” I whisper. “Say what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t want to hear that. Trust me.”
“Try me.”
His eyes flip to me. “You’re not fucking going. That’s what I’m thinking. You’re staying right here with me.”
Are all guys such cavemen at their core? Is it part of natural selection or something? They order women around to keep us safe from harm or something? I have to cut him a break, though, he did just lose his father.
“You asked,” he says.
“I did. Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”
“It’s true, but it’s also true that I’m proud of you and wouldn’t ever want you to sacrifice anything in your life for me. I’m trying to listen to that part.”
“Good, because I don’t respond well to orders.” His head nods a little. “Asking sweetly might work, though.”
His eyes dart to mine. “Please don’t go back to New York. Stay here with me.”
“Okay, but we’re not making any babies!”
He tackles me back down to the bed. “What if I ask sweetly?”
*
RORKE
I watched her swallow down her birth control pill with a huge, cocky smile on her face. Asking sweetly hadn’t worked for that one. But she agreed to stay in Fall Springs, so I’ll let it go for now. Truth is, I understand her reluctance. Things between us have happened quickly in her mind. She needs some time to catch up with me. After all, I’ve been in love with her my whole life. Seems like we should have a couple kids already.
Bending down, I plant a kiss on the top of her head as she furiously scribbles notes onto her favorite pink hearts. “I’m going to check in on Mom then head to the field,” I say. “Football practice starts this morning.” All I get is a little head nod. She doesn’t even tilt her head up to kiss me. That I’m not having.
Moving her long brown hair to one side, I know just the spot, just how lightly to let my lips graze her skin to get her attention. Her hand stops writing as she takes a deep breath, her tits rising. “Rorke,” she whispers.
“Come with me to practice,” I say.
“I’ve got so much to do. The wedding. Moving here. Arranging work.” Her hand starts writing again, even faster.
I kneel, turning her towards me. This isn’t how I want her to feel—stressed out and anxious. “Just this school year,” I say. “Then I’ll move up to New York.”
Her hand glides through my hair. “You have your mom, this place, the camp. I know you’d move for me. That makes this decision easier. You haven’t pressured me into this.” I open my mouth to tell her she’s more important than any of that, but she places a gentle finger over my lips. “I’ve made my decision. You know, my parents are getting older, too. My mom already had that stroke.”
“So this isn’t just about me,” I tease.
“I’ll keep my apartment in New York and go up once a month or so. But I want to be here, with you. This is what I want.” She tosses a few sticky notes in the air. “There’s just a little stress in making it happen.”
“How can I help?”
“Unless you have a wedding dress stashed away somewhere, I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”
“Remember the dress you were wearing the day you showed back up in town?” I ask. “White. Little straps, no bra.”
She busts out laughing. “I had a bra on.”
“No, you didn’t. You remember the one?”
“I think so.”
“Marry me in that dress.”
“I can’t marry you in that. I think I got it at Target for like twenty bucks.”
“I knew I was in trouble as soon as I saw you that day.” She blushes. The stress of finding the perfect wedding dress fades away faster than the pink of her cheeks. “And make sure no bra this time, too.”
*
The next few weeks my routine stays the same. Helping my mom as much as I can, football practices, preparing for school to start, wedding and honeymoon details. And I work on plans for the camp as much as I can, finding an architect to draw up some initial designs.
My mom has good days and bad. The more accurate thing to say would be she has good moments and bad moments, and those can change like the wind. One minute she’s fine. The next minute she’s in tears. And just like when Levi died, she’s kept everything exactly the way my dad had it. His toothbrush still sits in the bathroom, his shoes are still waiting by the front door. And I know better than to try to persuade her to pack things up. She’s only hit me one time in my whole life, and it was the day I tossed Levi’s toiletries in the trash. I wasn’t trying to be insensitive. Hell, I wasn’t thinking at all. I’d come home for a visit and figured she hadn’t stepped foot in our bathroom, and I just chucked it all. She cried for two days. So this time around, I’m going to let her grieve the way she wants to. Planning our wedding has been good for her. A welcome distraction from dealing with the aftermath of the death of her beloved. Still, I worry about when Sterling and I are on our honeymoon. Yeah, I finally figured out where to take her, and I can’t fucking wait.
Sterling seems to settle into a routine, too. She and her mom both spend time helping my mom. Sterling tends to work in the morning and has let our moms do the worrying about the wedding, which is coming up fast. She’s set up a schedule for monthly visits to New York, some of which she’s coordinated around breaks in my school calendar, so I can go with her. And while I don’t think it makes a lot of sense for her to hang onto her apartment there, she’s adamant it’s a good long-term investment. Something about her hanging onto it makes me uneasy. It’s like she can run back there whenever she wants—some sort of insurance or safety net. But I don’t plan on giving her any reason to need it.