Bet You Wish You Had Me Back

It was you and me and one hot summer,

Beading up with sweat all over each other.

Soaking wet.

We didn't have a lot of time,

So we didn't waste much.

Found in all the right places,

You wanted me to touch.

And all those memories

Make it so hard to forget about me.

It's strange being back in Ashwood. Even after all these years, it still feels like home--nostalgic in the way city streets fade into dirt roads, familiar in how little has changed. All part of the small-town charm--right down to the fact that nobody can mind their own.

Your business is everybody's business.

And secrets? They don't stay secret for long.

When something unforgettable happens, it settles into the bones of the place, becoming like an old wives' tale that everybody knows. That's how legends and scandals are born. How certain names are still spoken with a knowing tilt of the head long after the dust has settled.

But I know a secret that never made the rounds. Never slipped into whispered conversations in the after-church crowd. Never left its mark in gossip or guilty confessions.

It was just Shane Dalton and me. One hot summer after graduation, caught in the twilight between adolescence and adulthood. Tangled up in each other's arms on the bed of that old Chevy K10, with sleeping bags for pillows, and a wine cooler full of root beers and ginger ale.

Looking back, it never should have happened. Didn't make any kinda sense-- I spent years trying to get outta Ashwood, and Shane was never gonna leave. But maybe that's why we worked so well. He never tried to convince me not to go, and I never asked him to come with me. There were no promises or expectations. Just two months of stolen time. Just us.

And then it was over. I left for college. He stayed and joined the force.

Even though it was over ten years ago, the memories of those two months made it so hard for me to forget about him.

People always said I had him wrapped around my finger from the day I was born, and I suppose it's true. I've always been a daddy's girl; I could always make him smile at the end of a hard night. In that stern expression of his, I can always find the warmth and pull it out like a blanket fresh from the dryer.

I know me going off to college nearly killed him. I could see the tears brimming in his eyes the day I drove out of Ashwood, trying like hell to pretend I didn't see 'em. I can't imagine nothing harder as a parent than seeing yourself become a spectator to your only child's life. I drove off, leaving that patch of dead grass where I used to park my car, feeling like I was abandoning the last bit of family I had.

And now here I am, surprising everyone, including myself, when I step into the precinct out of the clear blue with a rucksack slung over my shoulder. I feel like a child coming home after failing miserably, hoping Daddy will bail me out. I feel ashamed.

But that shame is short-lived when all the shuffling of the precinct falls silent, and I lock eyes with my father's cool green gaze from across the room.

Panic and fear fill my heart when I see the paperwork he's holding flutter lifelessly to the ground. He sees the bruises and the splint. The black and purple have faded but it still looks awful. The smaller cuts have faded into memory, but one along my cheekbone still lingers, a thin, pinkish line that catches the light.

The circles under my eyes are dark from lack of sleep, and even under the long-sleeved shirt I'm wearing, I'm sure he can see how thin I am. Not to mention who in the Hell wears long sleeves in August in Georgia. He knows it's bad long before I can even open my mouth. I see it in the way his chest stops moving like the very air has been ripped from his lungs.

He takes a step forward--fast, unthinking.

And I flinch just a little. Just enough that his whole expression cracks.

I've never disappointed him, not once, and yet here I am, shrinking under that look of his like I'm in trouble. His question comes out with a bark I've never been on the receiving end of, and the station goes dead quiet.

"Who did this?"

He probably doesn't even realize how loud he's said it; he's got tunnel vision, and there ain't a thing he can see except for me. I was hoping to sneak into his office and do this quiet-like, but now? The sun won't be down before the whole damn town knows I'm home looking like I've gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

"Austin Cherie Walker," He marches up to me, saying my full name, and I feel a throb of sharp pain when I straighten my spine. Lord knows here in the South when your full name gets called, it ain't ever for a good reason. "You tell me who did this."

I try my best to force a smile, but we both know it's just full of lies. I feel like crying. I can feel the floodgates breaking, but Lord help me, I'm trying to hold it together for just a few more minutes.

Keep it together, Walker!

"Hey, Daddy," My eyes are burning and I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, biting the inside of my cheek, straining for just another minute. I give a pleading nod in the direction of his office. "Can we talk?"

My father is not a man to cross. He's never had much in the way of time or patience for other people's nonsense, and he was like that even before my brother died. Just a hard man from a hard time.

He doesn't shout, doesn't yell--never has. Least not that I've ever seen. I've seen plenty wither under my father's gaze, and it ain't because he's an angry guy. But he's got this way of making you feel about two inches tall, that's for damn sure, and that's exactly how I feel right now.

I've only ever seen him cry four times in my life--which makes seeing him blink back tears from behind his glasses all the worse. His throat bobs, and he clutches the papers I gave him with one trembling hand and his desk with the other. For a second, I'm terrified he'll have a heart attack.

Shit.

His mouth is a hard line, his mustache failing to hide the quiver in his upper lip--but I don't miss it. I can feel every eye on me through the glass pane of his office window, all of them riveted by what's happening.

Because their chief doesn't cry.

Not even when his world is caving in. Yet-- here he is, rubbing at his face like today is the second worst day of his life.

He's speechless, and I'm heartbroken. The urge to apologize rises up in my throat, tasting like bile--even though I know the only thing I owe him an apology for is not calling him when I first came to in the hospital.

I swallow down the sob that's fighting to be heard, but my voice still wavers when I finally speak.

"So, I was thinkin', if it's ok with you--that maybe I could stay at the house for a while. I know it's been a while since I've been home--"Too long, "And if it's not enough notice, Hadley said I could always drop in--"

I can't even finish my sentence--not just because the idea of not being welcome in my own bedroom, in the house I grew up in, is unbearable, but because he doesn't let me. He holds up a single finger--you know the one. The'don't you even dare' gesture.

He looks at the ground, trying to regain his composure before speaking. Then he shakes his head--once, then again, faster, like my suggestion is too outrageous to even consider.

"Absolutely not." His voice is gravel and steel, and there's no room for argument--I know better. "You are coming home with me, Austin Cherie."

If I had a tail, it would be tucked between my legs. My lips are quivering, and I'm blinking like crazy--not yet, don't start crying yet, Austin!

"Don't you ever think you are not welcome back home, you understand me, young lady?"

I nod furiously, hoping the movement will stall the tears about to fall. "Yes, sir."

He reaches for my bag before I can even say'I've got it'. Not that it'd do me any good.

"Alright, let's get you home."

There's no suggesting that I could get a cab or have one of his officers take me home. Because police chief or not, work be damned--there ain't a soul in this town that'd dare stop him.

I don't care that my chest or ribs hurt from his arms wrapping around me. In fact, it takes me a minute to register that it hurts at all when he pulls me into a hug that I've needed from the moment I woke up a month ago. Even when I feel the pain, I don't say a word. I don't care that this will be all over the damn town if it isn't already, and I don't care that I'm bawling like a baby. I'm home, and right now, there's no place safer than here with my father.

Ninety-two degrees. Sixty percent humidity.

Cash and I are sweating like sinners in church, uniforms sticking to us like a second skin, itching like hell. Might as well be sitting inside a goddamn slow cooker, parked on the side of the road waiting on reckless drivers and speeders. The AC's working overtime, but it ain't doing much more than circulating disappointment. Even with the windows cracked, the air's thick enough to choke on--hot, heavy, and mean.

Feels like I'm suffocating in this heat, and no amount of rolling my shoulders or shifting in my seat is gonna fix it. I'm already done with this shift-- despite the fact I still got a few more hours to go.

And the worst part? This ain't even close to cooling off. Not for another four hours, at least.

I should've taken the late shift.

Woulda, coulda, shoulda.

The car is quiet, with the CB occasionally crackling in. The only real relief is when a car passes by, and we get a rush of air surging through the windows. It ain't much, but at least it keeps us from feeling like we're breathing through a wet rag. But even those are few and far between because the fact is, everyone knows we're here. It's a popular spot to catch speeders. Just sitting on the other side of the bypass, waiting for folks not slowing down as they come into town off the highway.

Most days, patrol ain't bad; at least we're in the shade. But today? Something just ain't sitting right. Conversation has been dull and distant; no topic seems to stick. No games going on. No sense in talking about the weather. And there's no point in talking about how the best part of our days is gonna be a cold shower and colder beer.

It's just one of those days when nothing is going on. At least nothing I wanna talk about.

But just because I don't wanna talk don't mean Cash hasn't been trying. Hell, he's been at it for days, pushing a conversation I've been dodging like desk duty.

In that time, the wildfire of gossip has spread through every corner of town. Ever since Chief Walker's daughter, Austin, showed back up looking like she'd been in the fight of her life--and barely lived to tell about it.

Yeah, I heard the rumors.

Each one pissed me off more than the last because not a single one of them sounds like the Austin I know.

An abusive boyfriend

A bar fight

A mugging

A stalker.

I know bullshit when I hear it. It's like these people forgot who the hell Austin Walker was.

But I didn't.

I can feel Cash staring at me from the passenger seat like I just broke up with him. He aint even trying to hid it, been doing it all day. Pissing me off, actually. I've been doing my best to ignore him the whole time, but judging by his slow, disappointed exhale, he's about done with it.

Fine by me. That makes two of us.

His fingers wrap around his water bottle, and the plastic crinkles under his grip.

Again.

My jaw clenches, but I say nothing, and that's when he snaps at me.

"You're some kinda idiot. You know that?"

I almost laugh because if I had a dollar for every time Cash called me an idiot, I wouldn't have to work again. Suit me just fine. Cash don't have a shy bone in his body, and that mouth of his has gotten him into more trouble than any stupid thing he's ever done. Tact? He don't know her.

"Why this time? What'd I do this time?"

"Seriously? You gonna play dumb? That's how we gonna do this? We gonna fight like an old married couple?"

I got plenty of love in my heart for Cash, but God help me if I had to roll over everyday and see that mug first thing in the morning.

"If I ever got married Cash, I sure as shit could do better than you. Don't know how Shay can look at your ugly ass in the morning and feel anything but nausea."

It's all in good old fun but as I look over at him, there ain't no fun to be found. He's staring straight at me, expression set. Irritated.

"What's eatin' you?" I finally ask, knowing that if I don't, and he crinkles that goddamned water bottle one more time, I'll throw him in the trunk.

Cash looks at me like I'm testing his patience--as if he ain't testing mine. "You jus' gonna hope you don't see her at all?"

"Who, Leslie?"

Wrong answer.

"Jesus H. Christ, Shane. How'd that saint of a mama of yours raise such a dumbass?"

He twists the cap off and takes a slow drink of his water, looking out the window like he's done with me. There's a few seconds where the only sound is static in the background, filling up the space between us.

We both sit up a little straighter as a car comes our way. We clock his speed at just five over the limit--not enough for lights and sirens.

"What'n the hell are you on about?"

Cash doesn't hesitate.

"She's all beaten to hell, and you're sittin' here pretending that it ain't eating you up inside wanting to know what fool put their hands on her."

I don't breathe.

Didn't expect him to come out swinging. But he ain't wrong. Yeah, I know what he's getting at. Sonofabitch has been badgering me all damn week. Dry humping my last goddamned nerve.

My jaw clenches as I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, like maybe if I focus hard enough, I can pretend I didn't hear him. The CB crackles, but it's just dispatch updating another unit on a call across town. I shift my grip on the wheel, rolling my shoulders, suddenly restless.

Cash's watching me, waiting. I can feel it and he don't stop at just calling me out once.

"Just as thick as you were in high school. Wandering around for four years not even seeing that she had a thing for you."

"Christ, Cash, it was a fling." I snap before I can stop myself. I'm more defensive than I mean to be. I ain't trying to take his head off, but his constant yammering ain't exactly doing much to help my disposition. "Last bit of summer fun before the academy. Wasn't ever anything else."

It's the truth, but when I say it, it feels like a lie.

Cash doesn't say anything right away, but I know he doesn't buy it. His silence grates on me worse than his words. He's waiting on me to correct myself. I don't.

Instead, I press my palm against the steering wheel, wishing for a distraction... anything. Maybe some young and dumb kid skipping school out for a joyride so we can haul ass to chase him down. Anything to get me outta this conversation.

I steal a glance at him, and sure enough, he's got that look--brows raised, lips pressed together like he's trying real hard not to say,'You're full of shit.'

"Besides," I say, "ain't nobody would've had the balls to lay a hand on her. She'd kill them first. Austin ain't some damsel in distress."

It's the first time I've said her name in years, and I'm not ready for how it rolls off my tongue, making me wanna say it again--but I don't.

She's the farthest thing from helpless, and everybody knows it.

She once pelted a guy with baseballs for grabbing her ass on the field, all the while hollering, "Not today, fuckboy!"

Hell of a thing to watch.

She got a talking to from the principal. Then her old man had to come down and lecture the principal, then the football team, on the importance of treating ladies with respect.

I smirk at the memory. Shit was funny as hell. Cash was there watching it, busting a gut, same as me.

"Yeah, alright. I'll give you that." He admits, still smirking. "Don't make what I said any less true."

He twists the cap back onto his water bottle, rolling it between his hands like he's giving me space to admit it myself.

I don't like the way he's looking at me now like he's waiting for something, so I stare straight ahead, grip flexing around the wheel. Jaw tight. Shoulders locked.

Nothing pisses me off more than when Cash's right, and the bastard knows it.

The problem is, he also knows he'll wear me down. Not because I wanna give in--but because it's easier to let him win and shut him up than to fight it. That's how it's always been. Twenty years of knowing every damn button to push, and he's pressing all of 'em today.

I roll my tongue along my teeth, shifting in my seat like I can physically shake off the truth.

"I seen her m'self."

I jerk my head toward him, eyes sharp, opening my mouth but then shutting it again. Just like that, I've lost. He knows he's right, and all his pestering is validated.

"---Sure hate to see the other guy."

The words land like a hammer to my chest. I wanna ask him how bad it looked--if he talked to her, if she said anything--but the words get stuck in my throat, heavy as lead.

So I force my eyes back to the road, but I don't see a damn thing. Know what I do see? Same thing I haven't been able to stop seeing since the moment I heard she was back.

The thought of Austin having to fight like hell against someone else--someone who put their hands on her--makes my blood boil.

The leather of the steering wheel creaks under my grip, my knuckles going pale. A bead of sweat trickles down my neck, slow and sticky.

Makes me think of things I'd rather not.

"What's it gonna take to get you off my back about this?" I bite out, voice low and tight. "What'm I supposed to do? March over to Police Chief Walker's place and ask him to let me beat the bastard half to death? Do I propose to her after that?"

Cash scoffs, shifting in his seat like I'm the biggest dumbass he's ever met. I'm a lot of things. Stupid? No. A bit of a coward?

Maybe.

"How about you go over when your shift is over, and her daddy ain't home. Try havin' a conversation before going on a rampage. Start small Cassanova."

He cracks his knuckles absentmindedly; the sound's as loud as firecrackers.

"No one ever got to you like she did." Not teasing. Not pushing. Just knowing. "I saw you two that summer," he mutters, shaking his head. "Like something outta some damn sappy chick flick."

I don't say a word. But I do check my watch. 6:56 pm.

Cash thinks I've been keeping my distance. Thinks I've been avoiding her, for the most part he's right. What he don't know--what no one knows--is that despite the distance I've kept; I've driven by Austin's house every single night after work.

The house would be quiet were it not for the crickets chirping away their summer song and the cicadas trying to drown it out with their screams. Annoying as hell, really, but the older I get, the more I identify with those damned bugs. Somedays, it would be nice to sit outside and just scream my head off. Lord knows I got plenty I could be screaming about.

In a way, I've missed that sound. That sort of audible passage of time from the heat of the day to the cool evening. It's been two weeks since I've been home, and I'm still not sick of it yet, but like a lot of things here, give it time--that'll change.

Won't be much longer before I'm ripping my hair out, trying to sleep and slamming the windows shut, then cranking up the AC. That's when I and Daddy might butt heads.

If I'm even here that long.

I've missed this house so much, and with each step I take downstairs heading to the kitchen the familiar creak of the old floorboards under my feet is somehow just as comforting as a hug. Everybody knows this is the best time of day to sit out on the porch and enjoy an iced tea, and that's what I'm aiming for.

Daddy still has the same glassware and pitchers from the 70s; it's nice seeing that somethings never change. Folks in the city get so caught up about aesthetics, but not here--not my father. And I tell you a secret--drinking tea out of those old brown glasses with the floral etching, that just makes the tea taste better. Maybe it's the way they hold the cold, or maybe it's just the memory; either way, nothing else comes close.

And nobody--nobody-- makes tea better than my daddy.

For as long as I can remember, he's always taken the same brown metal thermos to work every day, and more than once, it's gone missing--people trying to figure out his secret--but I know what it is. It ain't sugar, or steeping time, or the way he stirs it.

It's love. It's that old, plastic green pitcher covered in scratches that he'll never get rid of.

It always hits the spot.

The way the ice cracks and pops as the tea pours over it brings a smile to my face--at least until I nearly jump outta my damn skin when the sound of a heavy first starts pounding on the door like someone is trying to break it down. The glass slips off the counter and clatters to the floor, shattering, and I feel a little piece of my heart breaking along with it.

My heart leaps up into my chest as I look to the source of the sound. I see the outline of a figure at the front door. Tall and bulky, and I immediately look to the cabinet where my father has kept a shotgun all my life. I know damn well it's still there.

I hop over the glass and to the front door, the pounding has stopped but the figure is still there. I reach into the cabinet and grab the shotgun. Before I can utter a warning to get the hell outta here, a voice I haven't heard in years calls to my name.

"Austin, it's Shane. Open up."

For a minute, I'm stunned, but I unlatch the deadbolt and undo the chain. The door creaks open and sure enough, there he is.

"Jesus, Shane, you trying to send me to an early grave?" I close the door and unlatch the chain, opening it up again.

He doesn't wait for an invitation before just barging on in.

Shane wears that uniform with all the precision my father does, and right now, I barely recognize the man, not from the passage of ten years--but because he looks a damn mess. Not in his appearance but in his demeanor. He looks furious like he hasn't slept in days, with a look on his face that makes him seem more like a mad dog than a sergeant.

"Wha's his name?" He barks it at me as I stand positively dumbfounded in the foyer--door still open. "I want his name and where he lives."

My surprise don't last long. I shut the door and throw the latch, his curious gaze heavy on me the whole time. Little habit I picked up from the city: folks around here still trust their neighbors enough to sleep with the doors unlocked.

"No, Shane, come on in, please..." I say dryly, completely ignoring his demands.

"I'm serious, Austin. You tell me where I can find that sonofabitch who put his hands on you."

I've never seen Shane so worked up; he was always the quiet, brooding type, and it might be scary if I didn't know just how much Shane hated men who hurt women.

He's about to say somethign else, but his little protest falls quiet when he finally registers that I'm holding a twelve gauge shotgun, and he looks perplexed.

"What'n the hell are you doin' with that?"

"The hell you think I was gonna do when some fool is pounding on my front door at eight o'clock at night? Ask you to politely stop?"

Shane gets this look like he's flustered, and then he remembers what he was so fired up about. He holds out that one disciplinary finger at me like I'm supposed to fall in line or something.

"Tell me his name. Imma teach that bastard what happens when he hits a woman."

I know the things Shane saw in his house growing up, so I'm not gonna hold his assumptions against him.

"No, you're not."

I put the shotgun back where it belongs, then turn toward the kitchen like this whole situation ain't the least bit unusual--unexpected, sure--but not unusual. There's a pause before the sound of his heavy boots follows me. His anger's on a short leash, but it ain't gone--not even close. It lingers between us, thickening the air, waiting for an excuse to come back.

I survey the broken glass on the floor and give him a hard look, spilled tea is just downright disrespectful. Grabbing the broom, I start sweeping up the mess, taking my sweet time before I finally put him outta his misery.

"There's no guy."

The bluster in his chest falls like the hackles on a dog's back when it realizes there's no danger. Still plenty of confusion to go around and maybe some disbelief. I'm sure I'm not the only woman who's ever said she hasn't been abused, so I can't blame him for that. I know what people been saying.

"What'n the hell you mean there's no guy? You just looked like a losing prize fighter by accident?"

"No, I mean nobody hurt me"

I can feel that narrow gaze raking over me--sharp and searching, looking for any sign of a lie. Shane's always had that ability to suss out the truth, makes him a great cop-- or so my daddy says. I sure as shit wouldn't wanna be across from him in an interrogation room.

Good thing I don't have anything to hide.

The sound of wet glass scraping against the tile is all that fills the silence before I elaborate.

"I was in an accident a month ago. In Charleston."

The simple statement isn't enough for him; no surprise there.

"What kinda accident?"

I stop sweeping, gripping the handle of the broom like it's a teddy bear. I hate saying it, but I know I need to. It's the only way he'll let this sleeping dog lie.

"The kind that involves T-bone collisions with drunk drivers doing 65 in a 40 zone."

Shane's been a cop for ten years, and I know he's seen his share of car accidents. Seen what they do and leave behind. Lord knows the accidents on rural roads involving bored kids and fast cars have left their share of scars on every office who's ever had to knock on a door and deliver the kinda news that makes knees buckle and breaks families into pieces. It's not pretty.

I hate even using the word accident when thinking about what happened--sure, no one ever means for these things to happen, but that doesn't change the fact that it did. And it all boils down to someone making a decision.

"One more beer"

"I'm just tipsy."

"I'm fine to drive."

"I can make that light."

"I do this all the time."

Calling it an accident feels like it demeans what happened. It makes me sick to my stomach when I think of the metal twisting around me--swallowing my friends whole.

Part of me wants to cry but honestly, I'm all cried out right now.

Shane just keeps staring at me like he doesn't want it to be something so simple. Doesn't change the fact that it is. He wants a bad guy to blame. He wants someone he can put in the dirt, and while there is one--the only judgment being dolled out ain't coming from a small-town sergeant. It's coming from someone far higher up.

My fingers wrap around the collar of my t-shirt, and I give it a tug, just enough so he can see it.

Doctors call it a Seatbelt Sign.

Cops call it a Trauma Stripe.

The long, brownish-yellow, diagonal bruise slashing across my chest-- the reason I haven't been able to sleep well in weeks. Same reason when I laugh too hard, I start coughing or can't breathe too deep without aching.

It's faded now, and it doesn't look half as bad as it did weeks ago, but his eyes lock onto it, and then they drop. I know what he's picturing, so I lift the hem of the shirt, and low across my hips is the rest of the bruise. This one is darker, stubbornly still purple, and makes sitting down an uncomfortable affair at best. Hideous and still feeling raw--but it saved my life. Well, that and airbags and crumple zones.

"I thought--" He cuts himself off, and just like that, the fire drains outta him. The bark to his bite is gone, and he sounds more like the Shane I know.

"I know what you thought." I give him a half-hearted shrug. "S'ok, small-town gossip."

Without a word, Shane takes the broom from my hands and finishes sweeping up the glass on the floor, and I let him.

It ain't much. But it's something.

Reaching up into the cabinet for two new glasses doesn't hurt much anymore; I've gotten used to the stretch. There's this odd feeling in the kitchen between us where it feels like something is supposed to be said, but nother of us is saying it.

The ice crackles in the glasses as I pour the tea over them, clinking gently like tiny icebergs. I hand the glass to Shane. He looks at it for a second before taking it, but he doesn't drink. His posture is stiff, like he doesn't know what to do with himself. He came in here all fire and brimstone, but now? Now he's just standing there. Like a man holding a gun with no target. He doesn't know what to do, neither do I.

I lean against the counter, bringing the glass to my lips. The sweetness of the black tea lingers on the tip of my tongue, and it brings a little smile to my face.

"Y'know, that tea ain't poisoned." My joke lands with all the grace of a bellyflop. No smirk. Not even a little dry huff through his nose--nothing.

Guess my humor won't help me outta this one.

"I haven't hardly left this house at all since I've been home, and Daddy thinks talking about it'll upset me, so he doesn't say anything. But Hadley has been keeping me posted with what everyone's been saying."

Daddy read the report and knew the details, but I haven't talked about it, haven't really told the story. I don't owe Shane anything, but for some reason, the words just start coming. It's funny; something about him gets people talking. I can only imagine how many criminals crack under that quiet stare of his.

"Charleston RiverDogs played at The Joe, took on the Hillcats. It was real a nail-biter; went into extra innings, but the RiverDogs pulled off a 5-4 win in the 10th." A small smile creeps in, thinking back to how we all cheered and popcorn was flying. "Hell of a game."

Shane raises his glass but stops before taking a drink. He's waiting.

"Drew was our DD. I had shotgun; Kelly and Lars were in the back. We were four blocks from my apartment, planning to keep the party going till the neighbors made some noise, but--" Something heavy is in the back of my throat, and I struggle to swallow it down.

I've never said this part of the story aloud.

"Another car plowed right on through the red light smashing into the driver's side--threw my car like a damn tinker toy." It's hard to keep the details to a minimum; there's so much I wanna say, but it's little things that don't matter.

Like how Kelly and I were arguing over what to put on next--The Lindas or Bikini Kill. Lars was singing 'Sweet Home Alabama' just to piss us off, and Drew was telling us all to shut up, threatening to withhold the Memphis-style bbq ribs he brought on over.

"My car slid across the intersection and rolled on its side. The driver's blood alcohol was three times the legal limit--he was coming back from the same game we were."

My lips almost curl into a snarl but don't quite make it before they start quivering.

"He died on impact. Idiot wasn't wearing a seatbelt and shot right through the windshield like a bullet outta a gun. Drew and Kelly were gone, doctors said they didn't suffer, but Lars made it to the hospital, but he died in surgery."

Something wants to rise up in the back of my throat, like a sob or demon, but I choke it back down. Shane doesn't move.

"That sonofabitch killed three of my friends," I'm trying like hell to keep my voice steady, but there's a rawness to my words that gives me away. "And he didn't even have to live with it."

The ice in my glass is clinking around from my hands shaking, and I'm a little surprised I don't break the damn thing--glassware from the 70s is builtdifferent.

For a minute, I just stare at the tea in my glass, watching the cubes float around and bump into each other.

When I look up again, Shane's eyes haven't left me. Still are wide and burning with something else. Maybe it's the simplicity of it that's pissing him off--not some violent boyfriend or a mugging--just a car accident. But it doesn't make him feel any better, just like it doesn't make me feel any better.

Three people died in my car that night, and I coulda have been one of them; my guardian angels must have been working overtime, that's for sure.

There's an ache in my chest that's got nothing to do with the pain of my bruises; I breathe it out, trying to focus on something tangible--the feel of the mat at the sink under my feet and the breeze at my back from the open window.

It's a little too real in this room for me right now--it reminds me of old and bad things I'd rather forget.

I need to pull back. I need some distance from this. My lips curve, and I let out one of those nose exhales--not quite a laugh.

"You really think I'd ever let a man put his hands on me?" I scoff, bringing my tea to my lips, trying to rinse the bitter taste from the conversation from my mouth.

It's not healthy the way I'm deflecting; I know that. But I'm not ready for any more.

"Mama always said keep your heels high and your standards higher." I shift on my feet, setting the tea on the counter and crossing my arms over my chest. That simple barrier makes me feel safer, safer than I really am.

Safe enough to say somethingstupid.

"Haven't really met anyone who met my standards since you."

Shit.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I can't get them back, I feel naked. Why'd I say that?

"What?" He sounds like he doesn't believe he heard me right, but there's no doubt that he heard every word I said. I know he did, and he knows I know it.

He takes a step toward me, and I'm stuck between him and the sink. Nowhere to run. "You sayin' you ain't been with no one since us?"

"Somethin' like that."

I've had sex in the last ten years, sure, plenty of it. But have I been with anyone steady? Longer than the time it takes for the bed to turn cold?

No.

All the iced tea sipping and jokes I can make can't save me from the questions I know he's about to ask. His eyes linger on me, stuck like I'm a puzzle he can't quite figure out. He follows a path down my neck, past my collarbone, and across my chest. There's a sadness there that I've never seen and I wasn't expecting.

I need another joke.

"If you think I look bad, you outta see my Camero."

"That ain't funny, Austin." His voice is clipped, all sharp edges and it startles me.

I know.

I know it's not funny, trust me. Every time I look at the photos of my car, it gives me chills. I know there's no humor in what happened. Four bodies went into the Earth.

Could've been five.

I'm not comfortable like this, standing here with him like there's something between us when there isn't.

For the first time, I'm not hiding; I look up into those dark brown eyes of his.

"Why're you really here, Shane?"

He didn't come all this way to find out the fictional guy who beat me up any more than he was gonna drive all the way up to Charleston to beat the crap outta him. He didn't come just to check on me; that could have been done much easier, and for all his ranting and raving, not once has he asked me if I'm alright.

So, whyis he here?

He doesn't answer me, doesn't move--just keeps looking at me with that look of his. The one that feels like it can see through me.

Like he can see something no one else can. His chest rises and falls with a breath that screams he's about to do something that might not be the best idea--but Shane's never let that stop him before.

There's a soft thud when he sets his tea down on the table. The scrape of glass on wood, ice settling with a lazy clink--I almost can't hear it over the sound of my heart pounding in my chest.

Three steps. Meausre. Unshakable. Like he's marching toward something--toward me--and nothing in this world could stop him.

The heat of him crashes into me before I can even brace for it.

Is it a coincidence that nobody's stuck since our summer together?

I don't know.

What I do know is that I'm too tired to make up excuses for why he's here, too tired to pretend this doesn't feel good.

Besides, I don't believe in coincidence.

When he moves, I don't even process it--not until my back meets the counter. The cool surface against my overheated skin startles me, and I seize up. The shock of it tightens my breath, and for a second, I'm expecting to feel the sting, the sharp reminder of my healing body. But I don't.

Matchlight--that's what it's like.

We're eighteen again. The embers that smoldered in the bed of his pickup like they never went out. Still hot and waiting to be stoked.

His hands are sure and strong, lifting me onto the counter like it's what he's meant to do in a way that doesn't jostle or jar.

Because he knows how to hold me--just like how he knows how to kiss me.

And there'sno hesitation when I kiss him back.

Shane's a man of order and precision. His world is full of sharp edges, strict lines, and pressed uniforms. A clean shave every morning, discipline in every detail. But up close, I can feel the faint traces of stubble on his jaw--it's rough under my fingertips, scraping against my lips as he slants his mouth over mine. Hot and demanding, tasting, tugging, starving for this--for me. I'm losing ground fast.

I should be hurting from the way he's holding me--his hands pressing into my hips, the counter biting into the backs of my legs--but it's less than nothing compared to his tongue lashing against mine. Swept under the current ofthis. Heat eclipses everything else, chasing away the dull throbs, replacing them with something that steals my breath and makes me arch into him instead of away.

It's the kinda kiss that blots out everything else.

He's kissing me like he never forgot; like he still wants.

And God help me--so do I.

A groan rumbles low and deep in his chest when my teeth catch that full lower lip of his, and thatdoes something to me.

His hands clamp around my thighs, strong and possessive, dragging me flush against him like he can't stand the space between us. One hand grips my leg, guiding it around his waist, fingers pressing into the back of my thigh, holding me there. The other skims up my body, rough and sure, dancing up my ribs before sliding to my jaw, tilting my head back. His thumb grazes my cheek, then tangles into my hair, pulling me in deeper. Heat coils low in my stomach, his touch growing hungrier, and the air between us is buzzing like a live wire.

Shane doesn't drown himself in cologne, but something clings to him-- it's clean and sharp. And close behind it, something deeper--leather from his gun belt, sun-warmed cotton, the scent of a man who's spent his day outside.

I know this uniform.

I grew up seeing it hanging by the door, pressed and ready before every shift. Helped wash it and took care of it. It's always meant one thing to me--safety.

But on Shane? It's different.

I can't explain why, not really. Maybe it's the way it sits on him--how the crisp lines make him seem taller, broader. Maybe it's the way it draws my eye to all the right places.

Or maybe it's just him.

Either way, all I know is--I wanna ruin it.

I wanna tear the seams and send those small tan buttons flying. Feel the fabric twist in my grip and wrinkle each perfect line and see how fast I can undo all that starch and discipline with nothing but my hands and my mouth.

Take this clean and pressed thing and leave it looking like this feels. Undone and completely outta control.

I grab a fistful of his shirt over his right pec, the crisp fabric wrinkling under my grip before moving up his neck and raking into his hair. My other hand tugs on his sleeve--crushing the APD patch in my palm.

My fingers curl into the thick leather of his duty belt, tugging at the heavy clasp, fumbling against the stiff Velcro that holds it in place. I reach lower, testing the weight of it, feeling the cool press of his holster against my wrist as I work to get it undone.

The rasp of the velcro gives way, and I press my hand against the tent in his slacks. I can feel him straining against the fabric, feeling his hips jerk into my touch like it's instinct. He groans, deep and thick like the sound of rumbling thunder headed my way.

"Fuck, Austin!" The words are raw and ragged, torn from his throat like I stole them.

His hands drag up my legs, rough palms over my skin, heat chasing their path. Up, up--over the frayed edges of the cutoffs, I barely went outside this house, then higher.

I gasp into his mouth when his hands slide under the hem of my shirt. Shane grips the fabric and pulls it up, and I let him. It peels over my head, and suddenly, I'm sitting on my Daddy's kitchen counter in nothing but cutoffs and a bikini top.

He pulls back just enough to look at me and he goes still. His eyes flicker down over me--over the bruises that still color my skin, the dark slash over my shoulder and across part of my chest, over everything.

Where I expect to see pity or maybe discomfort, I see only want.

God, the way he looks at me--

His mouth finds mine again, and I stop thinking altogether. The heat of his hands feels like they brand me, curling his thumbs over the ridges of my ribs like I'm something he needs to take apart and put back together.

He tastes too good and feels too good.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear the whisper of common sense trying to cut through the haze--telling me to put the breaks on this thing long enough to at least take this somewhere else--like my room. Not here.

Because as much as I want this, as much as I want him, I know letting things go any further in my father's kitchen is just begging for trouble.

I start to pull back--just a little, but his mouth keeps following me, and I'm trying to figure out how many more times I'm gonna let him kiss me before I actually say something--And then I hear it.

A car pulling into the drive.

My blood freezes in my veins.

"Shit!"

We spring apart like we've been shocked. Knowing damn well who just pulled up, and suddenly, we're nothing but two teenagers caught sneaking in past curfew.

I slide off the counter and looking for my shirt that Shane tossed. It landed on the back of a chair. There's a bolt of pain shooting through me as I pull it over my head, and I wince.

Shane's hands on me in an instant. Helping me work the fabric back into place, he gently pulls my hair out from under the neckline, fanning it over my shoulders. He barely touches me--but all the same, my skin still tingles any place he touches me.

The sound of a truck door slamming shut has me jumping out of my skin. Not sure who my daddy would be more furious at, me or Shane.

He fastens his belt again, making sure his shirt is tucked in as properly as it can be, given what I did to it. There's little he can do about the bulge in his pants, but all the same, he tries to hide it, I'm not sure how you hide raging hardon, but he's sure as hell trying.

His hair's a mess from my fingers raking through it, and he shoves a hand through the curls, half-heartedly smoothing it back into place. He adjusts his belt one more time.

All the while, his eyes are on me--smoldering like what just happened between us ain't over.

The crunch of boots on gravel grows closer and then the heavy thud of footsteps on the porch, then the jingle of keys.

Right as I'm about to step back, Shane stops me.

He leans in and presses a quick peck to my lips, like he just couldn't help himself.

Then--just like that, his expression shifts. Sergeant Shane Dalton, back on duty.

"I came by to check on you," He says smoothly; all business now. That low growl is gone. "You invited me in, and we was just catching up."

I nod, reaching for my glass. He does the same.

It ain't a lie, not completely.

Just omitting the part where he had me half outta my top on the kitchen counter; Daddydefinitely doesn't need to know about that.

He takes a step back, lifting his tea to his lips and slipping his other hand into his pocket--probably working on hiding his hard-on. I pull a face, like that's gonna work--it's a small thing, but Daddy don't like his officers just standing around with their hands in their pockets. Looks sloppy and unprofessional.

But given our cover story is just a quick visit and catch-up for old-time's sake, maybe he'll let it slide.

The door swings open, and he steps inside, stopping short when he sees his Sergeant standing in his kitchen at eight o'clock at night.

His brow furrows like two black caterpillars, and his voice is all confusion and curiosity, but he also looks relieved to see more than enough space for Jesus between Shane and me.

He's an old-fashioned kinda guy. I'll always be his little girl, no matter how old I get, and I know damn sure he'll always side-eye any man who looks at me or comes near me--even if it's one of his best Sergeants.

"Dalton?"

Deep breath. Keep it casual.

I grab the pitcher of tea and pour a tall glass for him, forcing my voice to stay relaxed. Admittedly, I don't have a lot of practice; I never had to try and hide something from him.

"Hey, Daddy," I say, holding the glass out toward him. "How was Mick's? Win any games?"

On any other night after work, Daddy would be at Mick's Pool Hall & Bar. Place has been around longer than I can remember-- for some reason it's called Micks, but no one knows why. The guy who owns it is named Doug, and he don't even run it. His wife, Donna, does.

He looks at the glass in my hand for a beat too long, and for a split second, I feel like I'm standing in front of my pastor, waiting to confess my sins or something

But I know how to handle that stare.

Just meet it.

After a few seconds, he takes the glass and drinks deeply, his eyes flicking between me and Shane over the rim.

"Three outta four. Couple good runs, but Bank shot got me."

He turns to Shane. I panic a little, got no idea if Shane can keep his cool in front of my father.

"What brings you by, Dalton?"

I try not to dart my eyes to Shane, so I steal a sip of my tea just to keep my hands busy.

To my great relief, he doesn't flinch. He meets my father's eye, steady as ever.

"Evenin', Chief," He says like it's nothing. "Knew Austin was back in town, saw the lights on, just wanted to stop by and say hi for old times sake and check-in make sure everything was alright."

It's a perfectly plausible explanation and hell, I even believe him.

Looks like Daddy does, too; he nods once. One nod is good; anything more suggests he's onto you.

Besides, Shane may have been his office for the last ten years, but he and I shared every grade growing up, something I bet Daddy forgot.

"Well, I'll be off now." He looks at me, "You alright, Austin?"

"I'm good, Shane. Thanks for stopping by. It was real good to see you again."

I keep my voice even, my smile casual--hoping Daddy can't hear my heart about to pound right outta my chest.

Shane gives me a short nod, the same professional dip all cops do.

"Thanks for the tea. Have a good evening, Austin.'

Another nod for Daddy.

"Sir."

Shane is nearly out of the kitchen when I jump to add that I'll walk him out; it's a simple thing, but if it ain't always the little things that get you caught when you are trying to get away scot-free.

Eighteen years growing up in this house, and no guest has ever walked themselves to the door. Can't believe I almost forgot that.

The front door closes behind us.

Outside, the air isn't as thick, and there's even a breeze that cools the heat between us--but it ain't gone. It's coiled. Waiting.

I glance over my shoulder back into the house, and I see Daddy's silhouette disappear into the kitchen.

Then I turn to Shane, breathing a sigh of relief while mouthing the word 'phew.' He rests his hands on his belt--that classic cop stance--and we just stand there.

I can't decode the look on his face. Is he having second thoughts about whatever the hell that was between us just now? Or am I overthinking this whole thing, like usual?

Before I can decide, Shane moves, taking a step closer and giving me a hug that, on the surface, is perfectly respectable to any nosy busybodies.

Then--low enough that only me and the crickets can hear him, he murmurs into my ear.

"My place. Two hours."

My stomach flips like a cheerleader doing a summersault. I open my mouth, but he's already walking away.

Crossing the lawn. Getting into his squad car.

And then--he's gone.

Two hours.

What in the hell am I supposed to do with that? Except I already know the answer to that one. I reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone--the screen is still cracked.

The first ring doesn't even finish before Hadley picks up, and I cut her off before she can even give me a polite'hello' or an excited'Hey, girl!'

"Hey, Hads, I need you to meet me at Doc's. ASAP."

Coming up with a reason to get out of the house without raising any alarms was as easy as mentioning a single name: Hadley Waller.

My partner in crime. My best friend. My ride or die.

As soon as I said seeing Shane had me feeling guilty for being such a damn hermit, and I wanted to go see her, Daddy smiled.

He even offered to drive me to Doc's, but I told him the air was too good for walking to waste it on a car ride. Which ain't a lie--now that the heat's finally letting up and the sun's going to bed, the night air feels real nice. The sky's still clutching onto the last streaks of deep orange and pink before giving in to twilight. The cicadas are hollering something fierce now, and the first stars are winking through the dark.

You don't get nights like this in the city. Too much light, too much noise.

I must've been rambling about that for a few minutes when Daddy just chuckled, told me to be safe, and let me go on my way. Normally, he's happy to let me talk his ear off.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm walking toward the local 24-hour diner to meet Hadley.

On a Tuesday night, Doc's is as good a secret meeting place as any--mostly because nobody's here. Ashwood ain't exactly hopping during the week unless there's a football game or a festival in town.

The place hasn't changed a bit since high school--still a cross between a Denny's and a Shoney's, still patched together with duct tape and wishful thinking. The red booths are worn down, patched with off-color vinyl, and even the floor still has that same ugly '70s print that's seen more late-night gossip than I ever will.

I spot Hadley in our old corner booth, and the second she sees me, she jumps up like I've just walked off a plane from war.

I feel like an ass for not seeing her sooner, but there's no hard feelings when she throws her arms around me in a hug tight enough to make a python jealous. Hurts like hell, but I bite back the cough crawling up my throat. It ain't gonna ruin this.

Lord, I've missed this girl.

She finally lets go and gives me a once-over, hands on her hips.

"Look what the cat dragged in."

She's equal parts happy and exasperated--lucky for me, hurt ain't in the mix. Whatis there, though, is curiosity and lots of it, too. No doubt she wants to know why I called her out here at damn near nine o'clock after barely talking to her since I got back.

"Two whole weeks, and I finally get a text at damn near nine at night? Girl, if you're about to ask me to help bury a body, I'm gonna need a milkshake first."

I snort, shaking my head, but there's plenty of guilt behind my smile.

"Hads, I'm sorry I ain't been around. Things have been crazy, and I--"

Hadley shuts me up with another hug, squeezing me like she's trying to wring the guilt right outta my body. I wheeze, coughing against her shoulder, and she jerks back like she just set me on fire.

"Shit! I'm sorry, girl, I forgot you'd still be smartin'. Y'alright?"

I rub at my ribs, waving her off. "I'm good, Hads."

"Well, let's sit down before I bruise you some more."

She shoves me into the booth with a little too much enthusiasm and slides in across from me, kicking her feet up on the seat like she owns the place.

I exhale through my nose, running a hand over my face. "I really am sorry, Hadley."

She just laughs at me like I'm an idiot.

"Good lord, Cherry Bomb, relax. I know you been going through something. Wounds take time to heal, and grief ain't linear. I knew you'd come round when you was ready."

I drop my head onto the table, groaning. I don't deserve this girl. Hadley just chuckles at my dramatics.

"Besides, I know way too much about you for you to ever think you can walk away from this dynamic duo." She says, gesturing back and forth between us.

If that ain't the truth.

"Alright, now that we got that outta the way. What's got your goat?"

She folds her arms and settles into the booth, waiting for the tea I'm about to spill.

She knows me too well.

I brace my elbows on the table, giving her a level look. "Okay. Hadley Marie Waller, I have two things to tell you, and you have to promise on your disgraced Girl Scout badge that you will not say a word to anyone."

Hadley's already interested, but when I throw in the Girl Scout badge reference, her eyes practically gleam. This is as serious as it gets; pinky swearing is for kids.

She nods quickly, scooting in closer.

"--Did you get your nipples pierced?"

"Hadley, what the hell?!" My jaw drops, and she snorts, cackling.

"I'm just kidding, honey. You need to relax a bit; enough with all the top-secret stuff. You know you can trust me. Tell me what's going on."

After a beat, she holds up her hand, palm out. "I swear on my disgraced Girl Scout badge."

I exhale a laugh, glancing around. The place is dead--just the cook in the back and a waitress scrolling through her phone.

Still, I lower my voice. "The summer we graduated high school, I did something I never told you about."

Hadley's face evens out, all traces of teasing vanishing.

"Shane Dalton and I hooked up."

I hadn't really meant to just blurt it out like that, despite the fact that it was one of the reasons I'd called her out here.

Now it's her turn to freeze up, go wide-eyed--and an even bigger achievement--go stone-cold speechless. Hadley. exe has stopped working.

Hadley Waller is never short on something to say, so on the off chance I just hit the reset button on my best friend, I repeat what I said a little slower this time.

"I hooked up with Shane Dalton before going off to college and before he went to the police academy."

I've said it twice now, but I get the feeling I may have to run it by her one more time, because her jaw is dropped, and she hasn't blinked for longer than I'm comfortable with.

"Hadley?" I wave my hand in front of her face, and like a frozen TV screen, she snaps back into motion.

"What?--Wait, how? Hold up, when?" Her words crash into each other, fighting for a way out.

"Shane and I hooked up--"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm with ya, Cheech. I got that part." She says, still staring at the table. Hands up, fingers twitching, gears visibly turning in her head. "Okay, how did that happen? And how did I not know?"

"It was the day after finals. You and I were with Dean on the bleachers watching the scrimmage. You took off with Dean after the game for ice cream, remember?"

Hadley's already nodding, her brain flipping back through the files. "Yeah, I remember that. Is that what happened after we left you there?"

"Kinda, yeah. I was just hanging back, enjoying the last bit of it. When I got up to leave, I ran into Cash--"

"Cash Denton?"

"Yeah, I used to babysit his little sister, remember?" Hadley nods with more certainty now. "He was coming off the field, and we got to talkin'. Congratulated me on my scholarship, and we were just shootin' the breeze for a bit."

Hadley keeps nodding along, waiting for the good part. So I skip ahead.

"Right when I'm fixin' to leave, he says maybe I should hang back a few minutes--said the football team was about to get up to some end-of-the-year shenanigans with principle Farris's car, and if I left now, I'd get caught in the middle of it."

"He wasn't exactly one of your biggest fans since the baseball incident with Kenny Moore."

I nod, turns out if you start pelting the principal's nephew with baseballs when you throw fastpitch--because he tried to get fresh with you on the field with a little grab-assin'--it don't exactly endear you to the man. He likes it even less when your daddy, who was a newly promoted chief then, has to come down and put the principaland his nephew in their place.

"So, what happened next?"

Hadley is on the edge of her seat, watching me like it's her favorite episode of Jerry Springer, and I can't say I blame her.

"I was just kinda sittin' there, looking out on the field, thinkin' about four years worth of games, track meets, photos, and all that--just lettin' myself get lost in the moment," I say, my pace slowing without meaning to.

There's no need to elaborate on how I was wondering if I'd ever be back to see any of it again. Broke Hadley's heart when I left too; no need to salt the wound. She either doesn't catch it, or she doesn't care; she's just hanging off my every word with an expression of disbelief, excitement, and the kinda hunger that only comes from top-tier gossip.

I run a hand through my hair, still not quite sure of how to explain what exactly happened next.

"When I finally got up to leave, I turned 'round, and Shane was there grabbing his bag--I guess he left it up there to keep it outta the dirt, you know? Seemed like he was having the same sort of graduation revelation I was havin'." I look down at the table, tracing the carved initials over the old surface, "As I got closer, he got this funny look on his face like he wanted to tell me somethin', but he didn't, so I took that as my cue to get."

Her hands are gripping the edge of the table like it might hold her back from launching across the booth at me.

"I stepped past him, and that's when--" I pause; the memory of it is still something I haven't quite untangled. "He grabbed my hand, pulled me back, and well, he kissed me."

"Oh, my God!"

Her screech is Loud enough to make Lazarus roll over and ask for five more minutes, and I damn near jump outta my skin for thesecond time that night.

I duck in the booth before my eyes dart a look around to see if anyone's watching, but we're still largely alone--though I do catch a cook peeking through the server window, probably wondering if someone just got dumped. Wouldn't be the first time. Doc's has seen it all.

"You're tellin' me that Shane Dalton just grabbed you and kissed you? Just like that? No warnin', no nothin'?" Hadley has the sense to whisper this part to me, but her voice is urgent and low.

I shake my head, still trying to figure it out, but I've got no more answers now than I did then.

"Well, what happened next? Was it good? Did y'all leave together?" Her questions come out like machine-gun fire.

"After that? Nothin' much. I went home--" I say with a simple shrug.

"--Austin! What the actual hell?"

"Hadley Marie, may I continue?" She bounces in the booth a few times but nods, acting like I'm pulling teeth or something. "I saw him the next day in front of my Daddy's house; he opened his truck door for me, I hopped in, and we'd meet up, hang out, talk, grab food, and--"

"And??"

"Andwhat?" I ask indignantly, even though I know exactly what she's fishing for.

"Did you guys do the Devil's Tango?"

I pull a face. "Really, Hadley? 'Devils Tango'? Who even talks like that ten years after high school? Hell, who talks like that outta middle school?"

"Okay, fine. Did y'all fuck?" She asks, placing extra emphasis on her favorite word, saying it nice and slow so I can't possibly lose its meaning.

"Well, now, that's a bit crude."

Hadley just stares, unimpressed, fresh outta tact, and no more fucks to give.

I sigh and reluctantly answer. "... Yeah."

She slaps her hands on the table, flatware clattering, and I damn near jump again.

"Jesus, Hadley!"

"How was it? Was he good? Tell me it was good!"

Of course, the holiest of gossip any girl wants to know about her best friend. Was the sex any good?

"Hadley, that's onlyone of the things I have to tell you."

She doesn't budge. Some things must be done in a proper fashion, and questions must be answered in the order they were received.

I slouch back in the booth, arms crossed, shaking my head. "Yeah... it was pretty good."

Memories playback through my head like a summer blockbuster--heat rising in the cab of his truck, windows fogged, the way his eyes locked onto mine, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

"... Really good, actually."

Hadley grins like she's won a prize at the county fair. Whether she notices my little absentminded confession or just wants the next part of the story, she doesn't push it.

"So, what's the other thing?"

I blow out a breath, sitting up. Here we go.

"Shane just came over to my Daddy's place. He kissed me again, and things started to get kinda hot and heavy."

I see the inhale, the breath she's about to waste, screaming, so I clamp my hand over her mouth.

Hadley licks my palm.

"Ew!" I jerk my hand back, wiping it on my shorts. "Don't get too excited; we didn't do nothin'. Daddy came home from Mick's, and Shane told him he was just visiting for old times' sake and wanted to make sure I was alright."

"Did your daddy buy it? He ain't stupid, you know."

She's right.

"Seemed to. Thing is, when I walked him outside... he told me to meet him at his place in two hours."

Hadley's eyes go so big I can't see the blue in them. "When was that?"

I pull out my phone and check the time.

"Little over an hour ago."

Here it comes--the conniption that can't be stopped. I'm already bracing for impact, ready to plug my ears and dive under the table--but it doesn't come.

For the first time, something close to hurt flickers across her face. Hadley hesitates, biting her lip like she does when she's thinking deeply.

"So, I know this is private stuff, but... why didn't you ever tell me? You know I'd have had your back."

I haven't seen Hadley in over ten years. Been shit for visiting, and then I'm MIA for the last two weeks--and this is what she's sore about? Not knowing about a summer fling from a decade ago?

Sounds about right.

"Of course I do. It's just..." I struggle for words, but the English language feels lacking in the department. "It just didn't occur to me. And later, when it did... I kinda liked having something that was just mine. Nobody else's."

She listens, waiting, so I keep going. "Everybody knows everybody here. It was part of why I didn't say anything. I guess I just liked the idea of pulling one over on the whole damn town before I left."

It's not the best explanation, but it's the truth. Hadley gives me a look, but it's not judgment--more like understanding.

"Huh. I figured you just didn't wanna hear everyone tell you Shane was gonna break your heart."

She's not wrong.

"There's some truth to that." I shrug. "But thing is, sometimes sex is just fun. It don't have to mean somethin'. He never said he wanted to do long-distance, and I never asked for flowers or a promise ring."

I lean back against the booth, exhaling. "It was just... nice. We didn't want nothin' from each other but fun. He knew I was goin' off to college, and I knew he was headed to the academy with Cash. I couldn't stand stayin' in this town, and he'd never think of leavin' it."

Hadley drums her fingers on the table.

"So... what're you gonna do? Clock's tickin'."

I groan, letting my head fall into my hands. "Hell, if I know. What am Isupposed to do?"

She tilts her head. "You still into him?"

I think back to his mouth on mine. To the heat of his hands, the way we might've ended up right there on my father's kitchen counter if we hadn't been interrupted.

"Apparently."

Hadley doesn't miss a beat. "What's his endgame?"

I arch a brow. "Well, I highly doubt he wants to marry me, have 2.5 kids, and live in a little house with a white picket fence."

Sorry, Norman. Those paintings were nice, but life doesn't always imitate art.

"So... sex, probably?" Hadley tilts her head.

"Probably."

"And you don't wanna see him?"

I lean back in the booth, thinking about it. What do I want from this? But I got nothing. Chicken Soup for the Soul and Judy Bloom didn't exactly prepare me for this.

I give up, shaking my head. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

Her answer stuns me. I look at her with a bold,'What the actual hell?' expression, but she just smiles--that same damn smile that says she knows more than she's letting on.

"You already knew what you wanted before you sat down. Hell, I bet before you even called me."

I blink. "Then why the hell are we still talking about this?"

Hadley grins. "Nowthat's a good question."

She shifts, leaning in. "Austin, this may be one of the few times I can tell you something about yourself that you don't already know. You're not confused. You know exactly what you want--you just want someone to tell you it's okay to go get it."

My throat feels tight, like she just reached in and pulled out a truth I wasn't ready to see.

"You been through the wringer girl, Tommy, your mama, then leavin' town and the accident. You've got it stuck in your head that you have to be sad forever. And that ain't true."

I exhale, shaking my head. "So... what do I want to do?"

Hadley smirks. "Girl, he's under your skin. Hell of a thing you kept it quiet this long."

Wait till she finds out Cash knew the whole damn time.

Hadley gives me the kinda smile that gives the sort of comfort only someone who knows you inside and out can dole out. "I've known you since diapers and daycare. Ain't never seen a guy twist you up like this before. Whatever happened that summer? Clearly made an impression. So the real question is--"

She gestures around the empty diner.

"Why on earth are you still sitting here in a shitty diner, not drinking crap coffee, talkin' to me about what youdon't know you want to do?"

She even throws up air quotes around'don't know,' and I roll my eyes. It's insulting how right she is.

Hadley's got me. By damn, she's got me. She knows it, too. So, I ask the only thing left to ask.

"Do I look alright?"

She snorts. "Bruises aside? If I were Shane, I'd make sweet, freaky love to you right here on this table."

Laughter spills out of me before I can stop it. I look like a whole-ass train wreck, and we both know it.

"C'mon." She scoots out of the booth, grabbing my hand. "We've got to find you something nicer to wear."

She slaps a five on the table--despite us consuming nothing but space, time, and oxygen--dragging me toward the door. I've really done it now.

I check my watch again-- like that's gonna make time go any faster.

10:36 pm.

The cold beer in my hands ain't done much to steady my nerves. I still feel more wound up than if I was about to breach a trailer full of tweakers and cooks--nothing but my service weapon and some half-ass backup fifteen minutes out.

The tweakers are bad. The cooks? Worse.

And it still ain't a fair comparison.

Because this? This is worse.

I ain't scared of what could walk through my door tonight--I'm terrified of what might not.

Two hours.

I told her two hours--which was dumb as hell on my part; if I'd have had any sense, I'd have told her three. Because it ain't as simple as clocking out. Takes time to get back, finish reports, check out for the night, and clear the station. Then get my ass home and showered because after sweating in my car all day, I sure as shit wouldn't wanna be close tome without one.

I've only been home for five minutes, and even though I know I need that shower, I can't stop staring at my front door.

What if I'm in under the water when she comes by?

What if she don't come by at all?

What if she alreadydid, but because I'm a dumb shit and I wasn't home yet because I told hertwo hours and nottwo and a half? Shoulda just rounded up. Telling someone two and a half hours just don't roll off the tongue. But at least then, wouldn't be standing here second-guessing every second of my entire goddammed existence.

Fuck.

I'm a wreck. Tell the truth--busting down a trailer full of tweakers on the outskirts of town might be more calming than this.

This was as bad an idea as bad ideas come.

And the next time I see Cash Denton, I'm gonna sucker punch that asshole right in the armpit.

I was fine just rolling on by each night, checking in without checking in. But no--I had to go and listen to the one guy who didn't have to work for his relationship. Cash got luckier than a dog finding a steak dinner with Shay. The girl practically landed in his lap when we was teenagers, and she never got smart enough to look for another guy.

Goddamned high school sweethearts.

And I let that idiot get in my head.

That being said, he wasn't wrong.

Seeing Austin tonight twisted me up worse than all the rumors floating around town ever could. A car accident. Not some asshole putting his hands on her. Just a drunk piece of shit who ran a red light.

A goddamned car accident.

I ran it through my head, which station I'd have to call to get the accident report. But short of being next of kin, it's not very likely Charlestone PD would be keen on handing out the details of what is probably still an ongoing investigation. Not that knowing would help anything. In fact, it would probably only make it worse.

Knowing exactly how drunk the sonofabitch was won't do anything for my anger--except maybe give me enough fuel to go at the heavy bag at the station gym for another hour. I know all I need to..

Austin lost three friends.

I've been a cop for ten years and I seen plenty of car wrecks--some light fender benders and some where I'd had to knock on doors at 2 AM and watch families fall apart.

Austins accident? She's leaning more toward the latter.

The thought of her body in that mangled car makes my insides churn, and I can taste something acidic rising up in my throat.

I know a thing or two about Trauma Stripes.

Judging by the dark yellow and fading brown, she probably wasn't sitting straight in her seat when it caught her. The mark on her shoulder was hard to look at--too close to her neck for my liking. She's lucky the damn thing didn't slice into her.

Upper belt bruises fade quicker, but the one across her hips? That's the bad one. That's where internal bleeding happens. Stays darker longer and hurts like hell.

Which makes me want to kick my damn self for putting her on the counter the way I did. Sexy? Yeah. Probably didn't feel too good, though.

Yeah, Cash is right. I am some kinda idiot.

Don't regret it, though.

Can't.

Can thank the same heat that had me cooking in my damn seat for those cut-offs--short enough to put Daisy Dukes to shame. Those ain't the kinda shorts her daddy would ever let her wear outta the house.

Austin always had legs for days. But I don't remember her having a rose tattoo on her calf.

Suits her, though.

That wild auburn hair of hers? Still felt silk between my fingers when I took her shirt off. I didn't even see the bruise then--too distracted by the dark green bikini top and all it wasn't covering.

She already had me on the ropes--despite the fact I know she wasn't wearing it for me.

Touching her again--feeling her legs wrapped around me--felt too damn right. She tasted like tea and summer, and if lying about regret got me sent to hell, I'd have a first-class ticket.

Because there ain't an ounce of it in my body. Not when I can still smell the oranges and ginger on her skin. Not when I can still feel her hands working on my belt, about to undo me completely.

Can't say I've ever wanted anything more.

Not when I was standing under those Friday night lights, clock winding down, praying for one last shot at the endzone.

Not when I took my oath to protect and serve.

Not even when I slid behind the wheel of my first patrol car, thinking I had it all figured out.

None of it--not a damn thing compared to the want that burned through me the second she kissed me back.

And if her Daddy hadn't pulled into the drive?

I don't know how far it would've gone.

I loosen another button from my uniform, trying to separate myself from the memory of Austin manhandling it. Did my best to smooth out the deep-set wrinkles where she had it clenched in her fists, but it didn't make a lick of difference.

I knew women liked the uniform, but I never once thought Austin might be one of them--her father is the goddamn chief of police.

That alone should've killed any appeal. Should've.

But she wasn't looking at her father's badge. She was looking at me.

I scrub a hand through my hair and give it a shake--Cash was right. I've never been a mess like this. It ain't me. And if he never woulda said anything, I'd be fine.

This beer would be gone in a heartbeat, and I'd either be looking for a game to watch or jerking it in the shower, trying to get this woman outta my head.

But no.

He had to go and open his mouth, giving out relationship advice like he's some kinda authority on the subject. When I know of at least six times, the idiot has forgot his own anniversary--dumbass.

Now here I am, staring at my front door like some lovesick fool, waiting for her to walk through it.

I've spent the last week doing everything but climbing damn trees to keep my mind off her--lotta good it did me. Ended up doing something stupid anyway.

But stupid felt really fucking good.

As far as women go, Austin Walker was about as laid back as a woman could get. Yeah, everyone knew she was a daddy's girl, but that daddy's girl was the toughest one of the bunch.

She ran with the boys and played just as hard, and that scholarship she got for playing ball? Her old man never let that go. Knew her way around a Camero engine better than half these punks in town.

Everything about her screamed 'dream girl,' but for me, personally? I always liked the fact that she did restoration work on her car all on her own--well, minus a bit of help from her old man from time to time.

Not the ball, not the pretty face, or the legs that can stop traffic--though those're nice, too. It's the fact that Austin don't mind getting her hands dirty.

She'd throw on an APD t-shirt and some ripped jeans, spending the entire day in the driveway with her old man, elbow-deep in grease like it's nothing.

Any woman who can work with her hands and don't mind being covered in dirt grime is just sexy as fuck.

And if I'm being real fucking honest, I had more than a few thoughts about her since our summer together--one that involve the hood of that Camero and the kinds of things that'd make a pastor sweat in his own church.

The kinda thoughts that have my dick jumping in my pants.

Get a fucking grip, Shane!

10:46 pm.

When I look up from my watch, I see it. Through the frosted glass on my front door, I see it.

A silhouette too soft and slim to be any man.

I got plenty of female friends, but I know just looking that it ain't any of them--it's Austin.

Her fist starts rising up-- she's about to knock--but I'm across the room and wrenching the door open before her knuckles make contact with the old wood.

She looks startled--guess I got the drop on her.

But when the surprise fades, she smiles.

"Hey," The word is soft and breathy like she's been holding hers too.

"Hey."

I hold the door open for her to come in before glancing up and down the street--ain't nobody out, so I shut the door and lock it behind her. The front of the house is cast in darkness when I flick the porchlight off.

"Figured you might need a few minutes to clear your shift, sign off any reports, and get checked out."

Most people don't think about the fact that we don't just punch in and out. But Austin knows, and it makes me smile that she does.

She pulls back the hood from the hoodie she's wearing; just because it's late don't mean folks ain't watching--but how in the hell did she make it outta her daddy's house in those damn shorts?

The air is heavy between us.

For a minute, neither of us knows what to say--or if we do, we ain't saying it.

Words can sometimes make a mess of things. And yet, I got something on my mind. Before she can start with what I'm pretty sure is small talk that we don't need, I stop her. Lifting my hand, fingers brushing against her lips--soft, warm, and she stills.

"Austin, I gotta say something."

Can't believe I'm about to say this. I take a breath. Steady.

"I'm sorry for showin' up like I did." Her brows pull together, lips parted slightly in confusion, no doubt this ain't what she was expecting, but it needs saying.

"I wasn't thinkin' right. I shoulda called or something--I shouldn't have done what I did."

Yeah, I hate myself. More so, I hate what I see in her eyes, it's looking more like disappointment with each passing second. I'm fucking this up already, but I can't actually bring myself to say the words 'I shouldn't have kissed you' because that's bullshit.

"If I disrespected any boundaries you have, I--"

The rest of whatever the hell I had planned just dies right there in my throat.

Because the tip of my middle finger is in her mouth.

I go stock-still, feeling the soft scrape of her teeth against the pad of my finger before she sucks.

A slow, lazy pull.

I barely register the way my mouth falls open, how the air leaves my lungs in a slow ragged breath--along with whatever the hell else I was gonna say. Probably would've sounded like shit, anyway, so no loss.

The softness of her lips and the warmth of her mouth doubles the supply of my blood running south. And the look that she's giving me? Looking like the cat that got the goddamned cream is causing heat to rush through my veins, my body responding so fast that it makes my world spin.

She pulls off with a slow pop, licking her lips, but my body demands more.

"Shit--,"

She cuts me off.

"Shane, you still got that truck?"

Say what? the truck I had in high school? My grey Chevy K10? I shake my head.

"No," I say, still half wrecked after what she just did to me. "I sold it before the academy."

The second the words leave my mouth, something dims in her eyes. I feel like an idiot for not knowing why.

"That's a shame." She says softly, fidgeting with her fingernails.

Her head drops down like she's trying to avoid me.

"I was thinking about that truck on my way here." She admits.

I say nothing; just listen. Because honestly, what can I say? Yeah, I thought about that truck too.

"I was thinking about being in the bed of that truck. In Offuts field. Out by the lake."

I know exactly where she's talking about. It wasn't a lake; it was a retention pond that kept the low-lying fields from flooding in the spring. We went swimming in it plenty of times; everyone did. Good way to cool off if you didn't mind a little mud.

"Sometimes," She continues, now messing with the sleeve of the hoodie. "After I first got to Charleston, whenever I couldn't sleep, I'd open my window and lay on the floor of my dorm room, close my eyes, and pretend I was right back in that truck with you."

I got nothing to say to that. I loved that truck. She was a piece of shit, but she was my piece of shit. Only sold her 'cause the academy wasn't free. Couldn't exactly keep a gas-guzzling tank when I was flat broke trying to become a cop.

Definitely regreting it now, though.

"After you left my father's house, I started thinking how you kissed me in that truck and how you kissed me tonight--I wanted you so damn bad."

Her voice drops lower, soft like a whisper, but still rough around the edges.

"Since the accident, I been thinking a lot about decisions I made and things I might have done differently. But not that truck because every second I spent in it felt safe. Like we were somewhere else. Away from Ashwood."

I don't know what to say. I've thought about that truck plenty, and everything we did in it. I feel like I should apologize. Like somehow I shoulda known what that damn truck meant, and I never shoulda let her go.

"Were you really about to tell me this was a mistake?"

I'm moving before I can stop myself--one hand on her hip, the other cradling the back of her head, fingers slipping through her hair. My mouth claims hers, deep and unrelenting, tasting every soft breath between us.

She inhales sharply before melting against me, her hands gripping tight--one fisted in my sleeve, right over my department patch, the other curled against my chest. The fabric pulls under her grip, stretching, and wrinkling, and I already know I'll never get them out.

But I don't give a damn, because when she kisses me like this? Like she wants to sink into me? Little things like that just don't matter.

Yeah, I was gonna say something stupid. Thank God for southern women.

I pull my mouth away from hers long enough to say one thing:

"We are gonna finish what we started in your Daddy's kitchen."

Something stronger than adrenaline surges through me, and before either of us says anything else, I start walking her back. When her back meets the tile of the island, her mouth parts, and I take it again. My lips move over hers slowly, deliberate-like a fire that smolders before it catches and consumes everything in its path.

And my hands?

They aren't idle.

I pull the zipper down, easing the hoodie off her shoulders, letting it slip to the floor without a second thought. The loose long-sleeve I was expecting is gone, replaced with something smaller--softer. A white tank top clings to her now, the thin fabric stretching over curves I've been dying to get my hands on.

And I will.

Because that? That needs to go too.

She lifts her arms without hesitation letting me guide them up. The second I peel it over her head, her hair tumbles down, spilling over her shoulders in wild waves.

Her breath hitches when my hands graze her ribs, fingers brushing over fading yellow and deep brown. I pause for half a second, thumb skimming over the mark--not enough to break the moment, just enough to remind myself to be careful.

But then my eyes drop lower.

The dark green I was expecting isn't there. It's black--thin cotton, soft lace. Simple, but goddamn if it doesn't make her look like sin wrapped in silk. The fabric hugs the curve of her tits, lifting and framing them just right--C cups, but they look like a handful, like something worth taking my time with. Swallowing hard, my hands find their way back to her waist, ready to strip her down further.

I'm mindful of her hips when I pop the button on her shorts and drag the zipper down, the sound of its teeth separating with a quiet metallic rasp.

I know a thing or two about getting a woman out of her clothes in a hurry, but I'm not hurrying now--not like before.

She wiggles a little bit when I push the shorts off her hips, and they slide down her legs to pool on my floor.

Fuck, that's cute.

Her flip-flops go skidding across the floor with a lazy kick.

Now she's just standing in my kitchen in nothing but a black bralette and dark green panties. It's a sight that has my hands twitching, and my dick aching. Bruises? Yeah, I guess they're there, but I don't see them.

She pulls a shakey little breath of what I'm pretty sure is nerves when I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and give her a breath. Long enough to stop me, but she doesn't.

She wants this too. I lower myself and press a kiss ot her stomach, then where the dark mess of a bruise is. Letting my lips brush against her skin several times, letting her feel the warmth of my breath on the skin I expose as I push her panties down.

That's when I see it.

If I were some shithead teenager, I'd probably cum in my pants right then and there.

Because there, inked into the skin of her hip--

Is a number.

My number.

47

I've worn that number for everything, don't matter the sport--number 47 is mine every time. And now, it's on her. I look back up at her, and I'll be damned if Austin Walker ain't blushing.

I wanna drag my tongue over it-- see her squirm. But she ain't done giving me things to make my mouth water.

I take my eyes off hers long enough to slide her panties down the rest of the way, and I groan. There ain't nothing in my way--every inch of her is smooth. Shaved or waxed, I don't know, and I don't care.

But I do know that I wanna taste more than the ink on her skin.

Looking up at her from the floor; I just might be ruined.

Soft legs I can't keep my hands off of, my number tattooed on her hip, tight stomach from years of ballgames and conditioning.

God bless America's favorite pastime.

I let my tongue dip into her belly button.

"Shane, what're you--?"

She's breathless, and I smirk.

What am I doing?

Whether she meant it as a real question or not--the answers gonna be the same. I let my grip slide down her thighs, spreading her legs just enough for what I want.

"Gonna do what men do in the kitchen--"

I press my lips to the inside of her knee, keeping my eyes locked on hers as I hitch one of her legs over my shoulder, holding her exactly where I want her, causing her to clutch the counter

"--Eat."

There's a heartbeat of space between my words and the moment I put my mouth on her--just long enough to catch the sharp rise of her chest, the way her breath stutters.

I never had her like this when we were eighteen--too much hesitation, too many second thoughts. She wasn't pushing, and I wasn't pressing the issue. Sex was simpler back then, and I wasn't too keen on going down on a girl--didn't seem all that important.

Didn't realize how much I'd end up loving it.

How easy it is to wreck a woman with just my mouth.

I know better now.

I ain't the first man to taste her, but Imma make damn sure I'm the one she remembers.

Her breath hitches the second my tongue finds her, and her whole body tenses. I licks up her slit, slow and lazily, easing her into it. Her thigh strains over my shoulder, fingers digging into the counter like if she doesn't, she may fall over. She just might when I'm done with her. Her eyes are half-lidded, brows furrowed like she's deep in a dream, but she ain't never had a dream like this.

"Shit--"

Then the words, so quiet--more breath than voice. I wanna hear more.

I do it again--licking slowly, dipping my tongue past her lips, tasting her properly. She's sweet, with just the barest hint of salt. It's the kind of taste that sticks to my tongue that I already know I'll be chasing long after this moment. I've seen men destroy themselves chasing a high--this? This is the kind of addiction I'd let ruin me.

Her hips roll forward to meet my mouth, and I don't even think she realizes she's doing it. I've never been the type of man who needed this. Never had a woman I wanted bad enough to make me crave her.

Having her like this gives me perfect leverage to keep her right where I want her. I'm sure she'd rather be laid out on a bed, and we just might get to that later. But right now, she's letting me devour her like I'm starved. And if her old man hadn't come home, I'd have had her just like this back in her house.

No faster way to get fired getting caught tongue fucking your boss's daughter in his own house.

Probably no faster way to end up in a mineshaft, either.

My hand strokes up and down the back of her calf, tracing the soft curve of muscle, fingertips grazing over the rose on her skin.

She breathes my name.

Not a whisper. Not a moan. Something caught in between--fragile and raw--shooting straight to my cock like a live wire.

I let my hand drift higher, fingers skimming up her thigh before slipping between her legs. Parting her wet lips with the pad of my fingers, she shudders when I rub up and down, smearing her slickness. She stills, breath locking tight in her throat like she's bracing for something. But there ain't no bracing--only feeling.

My lips part in an open kiss, slow and wet, curling my tongue around her clit. She freezes, just for a second, caught between pleasure and the shock of it--but that hesitation disappears real quick when I flatten my tongue and drag it back up.

The breath she was holding shatters, spilling out in a strangled gasp; like she wasn't ready for this--even though she came here wanting it.

I spread her open with my fingers, leaving that pretty little pearl bare, nowhere to hide. Her thighs tense, breaths sharp and uneven. I blow a slow, teasing breath over her, and she shivers, whimpering--soft, needy. Damn near the sweetest sound I ever heard.

I don't make her wait. I seal my mouth over her, kissing her like it's her lips--slow, deep, savoring. My tongue flicks, drags, twists--coaxing, teasing, playing. I suck just enough to make her gasp, her hips jolting forward, chasing the heat. And damn if I don't love the way she moves for me.

She clings to the counter, writhing, her body begging for more. This time, she don't bother swallowing the moan. I work her pussy with my mouth, my tongue rolling, licking, teasing in ways that make her shake. Her breath comes fast, sharp, every gasp timed to the flick of my tongue. And then it happens--that sound I wanted all night. That breathy, desperate moan slipping from her lips as I slide a finger inside, searching for the spot so few men take the time to find.

Yeah, there it is.

She's tight. Hot. Wet. Perfect.

Her hips jerk forward, her leg tightening around my shoulder when I add a second finger. I move in tandem--tongue and fingers working together--dragging her right where I want her.

"God...--Shane..."

If both my hands weren't busy, I'd be gripping my cock just to take the edge off because as much as I'm enjoying this--and I am--I'm so hard it's damn near painful.

But this woman, this fucking woman--she's one step ahead of me.

Her hands shake as they leave the counter and my mouth slows as I watch her pull the bralette up. Teasing herself, rolling one soft pink nipple between her fingers.

I don't move-- I just watch the bud stiffen into a small peak. Her fingers shake as her other hand finds my hair, threading through it, scraping over my scalp--tugging me back in.

"Y'aint done yet, are you?"

Jesus fuck-- No.

No, I sure as shit ain't.

The things I'm gonna do to this woman. I'm making a list in my head, and it's gonna take all night to make a dent in it.

"Keep playing with those tits of yours, baby." I lick my lips and growl into her pussy. "Show me how you like 'em touched while I eat your sweet pussy."

Her moans drive straight through me as I swirl my tongue faster, sucking again and working another finger inside her, curling in a 'come here' motion. Because I want her coming.

Her breathing stutters--getting faster, shallower. Every time I moan, she jumps and whimpers. Her grip tightens in my hair--sharp and desperate and I fucking love how it burns.

Her body starts twitching, clenching--her thighs quivering around my fingers with every pump and jolt when I find that spot inside her.

Then I go to work.

I hear the little whimpers start coming.

I double down; she ain't leaving this kitchen till I get what I want, and I want Austin Walker coming apart.

I lap at her like she's the best thing I've ever had on my tongue-- taking that sweet, swollen pearl into my mouth and letting my tongue roll over it again and again. Barely giving her space to breathe. Her hips grind into my mouth--chasing it, needing it. Her legs are shaking, and her nails are doing a number on my scalp.

She's right there.

"Shane--Goddammit! I'm gonna cum--baby, please!"

That's what I wanted to hear.

I let my tongue flutter over her clit, lapping at it lightly and fast--like I've got something to prove. I don't care that my jaw is starting to ache or my tongue is on fire-- not when she's clenching my fingers, her entire body going taught like a guitar string.

"Ohmygod!--Shane! Fuck! Don't stop!"

Her hips jerk forward, thighs clamping tight around my head, trapping me there like she can't stand the thought of losing this--losing me. She shudders hard, the kind that rips through her like a live wire, and I know it's hitting just right.

I can feel it.

The way her pussy grips and pulses around my fingers, hot and tight, her body writhing against my mouth like she's chasing every last ounce of pleasure before it gets to be too much. She grinds against me, her slick heat coating my tongue, her moans breaking apart between ragged breaths.

She fists my hair, holding me right where she needs me, rolling her hips against my mouth in frantic little stutters as she tips over the edge. Her legs shake. Her stomach tenses. And then?

She comes.

Loud. Wild. Unrestrained.

She curses, sings, moans my name like it's a goddamn prayer. A breathless, broken amen between gasps of

"Oh God--Yeah--Fuck! Oh my God, Shane!"

And fuck if it ain't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

She comes like it's been years for her.

Maybe it has, and I'm torn-- between hoping it hasn't and the smug, bone-deep satisfaction of being the first bastard to get her there.

A shudder rips down my spine because, Jesus Christ, I can already feel how good that's gonna be wrapped around my cock.

She slumps back against the counter, breathless, fingers still tangled in my hair--no longer pulling, just gliding. A slow, absentminded stroke over my scalp, like she's coming back to herself one soft touch at a time.

Her head tips back, lips parting on a sigh, and when she reaches for the counter, it's not to steady herself--it's to brace against the aftershocks still rolling through her.

Her chest rises and falls in sharp, shaky breaths, her tits heaving with each one.

"Shane.. Oh, my god..."

Her cursing fades to deep and satisfied moans; it almost hurts to stop on my end, but I know she's gonna need a minute, and my mama raised a gentleman. I let her ride it out, watching the last of the tremors roll through her, watching those perfect tits heave with every ragged breath.

I press an open-mouth kiss to the inside of her thigh and slowly pull my fingers free, keeping my grip on her leg firm so she don't fall. She clings to me as I set her leg back down on the ground.

Her eyes are hazy and unfocused at first when I bring each slick, glistening finger to my mouth.

And lick them clean.

One at a time.

I never look away.

It's downright indecent what I'm doing, the wet sounds of my lips around each finger and the way she's looking at me. Her skin is flushed, and she's positively glowing as she wets her lips with her tongue.

"When you said we were gonna finish what we started in my daddy's kitchen, I just thought you were gonna fuck me--didn't know you were trying to make me see God."

Just fuck her? That's an amusing notion. I crack a sideways grin.

I lean in to kiss her and let her taste what I've tasted. She melts against my mouth, and she ain't shy with that tongue of hers. Licking against me, lips brushing against each other again and again till I pull back.

I fucking love it when a woman will kiss me after I've eaten her pussy--can't explain why.

"Not yet, baby; if you were hoping for a quick fuck then you're in the wrong damn house."

I glance down and put my mouth on one of those perfect tits rolling her nipple around under my tongue. A slow, lazy swirl before I pull away, letting a thin trail of saliva stretch between us till it breaks.

"You just gonna have to be patient--I'mma take my time with you."

"Patience ain't my strong suit, Shane."

"Well, you're gonna have to work on that--'cause I plan on working you all night."

Some women just ain't made for a quick fuck, and as much as I wanna fuck her senseless, I'm not about to--not yet. I drop another kiss on her, and her arms wrap around my neck.

"Gonna fuck you till you come."

I skim my fingers up her side, cupping her breast, thumbing her nipple, feeling her shudder.

"Then gonna have you ride me till you come again."

I press my mouth to her jaw, whispering against her skin.

"Gonna eat that hot pussy of yours till you're shakin'--'til you're cryin' my name--then I'mma fuck you till I come."

She sucks in a breath. Her eyes are blown wide--heavy with hunger and shock.

Yeah, I didn't talk like this when we were teenagers.

"You gonna last that long?" She asks, a bit skeptically.

I grin, but I ain't deterred.

"Hell no," my chest rumbles with a deep chuckle of pure amusement. "Gonna be an all-nighter. Hope you weren't planning on sleeping much."

I kiss her again, harder this time, catching her lip between my teeth, and her fingers tighten in my hair.

"Right now, I need to fuck this freshly licked pussy."

When she outright whimpers--and that look on her face. It's everywhere between disbelief, and a challenge that I better not be making promises I can't keep.

"While it's tight and hot."

Her throat works, swallowing down whatever disbelief she was feeling.

"Where'd you want me?"

Hell. Everydamnwhere.

I could do things to her that'll have her looking at a kitchen sink like she owes it an apology.

I look around, weighing my options.

Dining table would never be the same again--can't think of a better meal to enjoy there.

The couch ain't too bad. Wouldn't mind having her ride me there. Though I'd never be able to watch a game without getting hard as hell.

My desk is in the next room, and it's a perfect spot to have her bent over. Might make it hard to get any paperwork done in the future if all I'm thinking of is how tight she felt.

I've never taken a woman on a cold floor and ain't about to start.

I look down the hall to the back bedroom, and my mind's made up. We're gonna do this right.

"My bed."

Before she can move, I stoop down and scoop her up, taking plenty of care to be as gentle as I can--even when I wanna smack that perfect ass in my hands.

It ain't painless for her, but she don't seem to care. Her legs wrap around me, and I make a mental note to make sure I don't forget to wash this uniform before putting it back on--because the way she's pressed against me, I'm already ruining it.

She lays into my neck with every step we take, sucking on my skin but not so hard as to leave marks; can't have that--department policy and all.

Still, all that kissing and licking, is making my cock throb with each step.

My room's as simple as it comes, just a bed for sleeping, end tables for my gun, dresser--no tv, can't stand the noise in a room that's all about resting--sometimes fucking.

The room's mostly dark, but there's a sliver of light coming in from the long blackout curtains coupled with the light from the hallway. Making my way to my bed, I set her down on it--still in a state of disbelief.

Austin Walker is on my bed. Half naked. I'm about to have sex with her again.

Something about that thought stops me.

'Having sex' seems like such an official term, clinical even for what we're doing.

'Fucking' ain't quite the word either; it's deeper than that, but it sure as hell ain't 'making love'.

I don't know what the word is, but it don't matter.

Because Austin is kneeling on the bed, working the rest of the buttons on my uniform loose, and my brain ain't worth a damn anymore.

The heavy fabric slips off my arms, falling to the floor.

I'm not usually this careless with my uniform--but then again, I also don't usually have Austin trying to climb me like I'm her favorite tree.

I grab at the back of my neck and yank my undershirt over my head--white cotton, gone in a flash.

Her hands splay over my chest, fingers pressing into muscle, like she's memorizing the shape of me--broad, hard, cut from years of football, work, and sweat.

The belt slips free, hitting the floor with a heavy thud, forgotten. My vision tunnels, the kind of fog that rolls in when you're so turned on your whole damn body runs on instinct alone.

Her mouth trails lower, leaving heat in its wake. Then--fuck.

Her hand slips into my pants, fingers curling around me, warm and sure, and my whole body locks up. A sharp inhale. A jolt of need. I'm still half-dressed, still trying to remember how to breathe, when she pulls my cock free and lowers her mouth to it.

A hiss rips past my teeth the second her lips graze the head--hot, wet, teasing. Every ounce of blood left in my body rushes south, thick and pulsing, aching.

How the hell am I supposed to stop her now?

Her tongue licks along my shaft, teasing the underside before circling my head like she's tasting a new treat. She sucks, soft at first, then harder, hollowing her cheeks, and just as I think I can handle it, her hand slides lower.

Fingers stroke over my balls, warm and deliberate. I damn near choke on a breath when she rolls them between her fingers, my whole body going tight, every muscle locking up like she's got complete control.

"Fuck--Austin!"

I rock forward on my heels, hips twitching like I can't help it, curses spilling from my lips with every slow, greedy suck--fuck, it's good.

I'm in serious danger of blowing my goddamned load right here. And while that may feel fucking amazing, it ain't what I want.

With a groan, I grip her chin, and I swear it's like pulling teeth. She lets go with a soft pop, her tongue darting out to catch the slickness left behind, pouting like I just took something sweet from her. It's a fucking crime, how good she looks right now.

"Said I wanted to fuck you." My voice is thick and rough, and I almost don't recognize it.

My cock is aching. Her lips are slick and swollen and I swear, I see something burning in those eyes of hers.

Pride.

Pure fucking pride.

"Lay back, baby, got too many layers between us."

I lift a boot on the footboard of the bed, yanking at the laces.

"Take that scrap off."

She reaches to grab the bra she's wearing

"Slow."

I don't blink, don't even look at my boots, muscle memory guides me through it.

Her arms work slowly, and I watch her fingers curl into the fabric, pulling it up until her tits spill right out, full and perfect, nipples pebbled tight. She shakes her hair out, tosses it to the ground, and sinks back into my pillows.

The sound of my belt whipping through the belt loops is a little louder than it needs to be, but I don't care--I got too much energy in me to keep this quiet.

I don't consider myself much of an exhibitionist, though I don't mind watching at all--but I like the way she's watching me take off my clothes, laying naked on my bed. It's doing something for me the way her eyes are drinking me in.

The boots drop to the floor with two dull thuds, socks land who knows where.

I'm working on my pants; she starts stroking her skin over her chest with her nails. Running all over her neck and collar down and over her tits. Just soft little touches with the pads of her fingers--Jesus help me.

I toss my pants to the floor, and then I'm just there in my boxer briefs, and the corners of her mouth turn up into a smirk.

"Need a hand with those?"

I scoff.

"Nah, don't you move."

I shove them down my legs, kicking them away, and then there's nothing between us. I gotta say I don't mind the way she's locked onto my cock, licking her lips, looking at it like it's exactly what she wants, and she don't care how.

The mattress dips beneath me as I crawl up the bed, closing the space between us.

I take her in--all of her. From the tips of her toes to that wild spill of auburn hair fanned across my pillow. I don't even see the bruises--just every inch of her I wanna touch, taste, and mark.

Then my eyes land back on that number inked into her skin.

"Your daddy know about that tattoo?"

"There's plenty my daddy doesn't know about." She says with a look that's all mischief.

The idea of Daddy's little girl, keeping a secret from her old man is outright amusing, and I don't hide my laugh. But I got a feeling some of those secrets are dirtier than others.

"Like a tattoo of my number on your hip? Wonder what he'd have to say about that?"

I lean down to kiss her, but she ducks out of my reach, finding my neck instead. The wet heat of her tongue sliding over my Adam's apple turns into a kiss, and I feel my cock twitch..

She hooks a leg up my side, soft skin pressing into mine.

"If my father knew half my secrets," She murmurs with honey in her voice, "he'd have sent me off to a convent.'

"What secrets?"

That smile of hers is gonna do me in; there's a story behind it, and it ain't one for sharing outside of this room.

"Like the fact that the first person to eat my pussy... was my college roommate, Lena."

Hold the goddamned mother fucking phone.

My body locks up. She's grinning at me, knowing she just hit the reset button on my damn brain.

"Jealous, Shane?" She's smirking at me like she just threw a live grenade in my lap just to see how I handle it.

"Fuck, Austin--"

I crash my mouth to hers, teeth grazing, tongue sweeping in. I need to taste her, touch her, bury myself so deep she never keeps a secret like that from me again, and goddamnit, I need to know the details of that story.

I break away long enough to mutter against her lips.

"You let a fuckin' woman taste you first? Why?"

"Because I was nervous, and Lena broke up with her girlfriend for cheating on her. We had a few drinks and played a little game of Never Have I Ever'."

I let out a harsh breath, shaking my head.

"Pretty sure I seen that porno before."

"Not this one, baby." Austin hums, lips ghosting over my ear, her voice all low and knowing.

The way she says that makes it feel like I'm looking at a very different woman now, one I don't know anything about.

That coupled with the image she just put into my head--thank god I ain't some teenager about to blow at the holy grail of porn, girl on girl.

"Imma need some details there, baby."

She laughs, but it's breathless, and she's got no idea how much I like hearing that.

"Right now?"

"Right the hell now."

She rolls her eyes but grins like she knows exactly what she's doing to me. "Jesus, Shane, thought you wanted to fuck me."

"I do, but I need to hear those details--got plenty I can do to pass the time with you in the meantime."

I take full advantage of her distraction.

Before she can argue, I drop my mouth to her nipple, sucking slow and deep, swirling my tongue just to watch her come undone.

Her sharp gasp melts into a moan, and she arches hard into my mouth.

Fuck. My dick jumps.

That's what I needed.

"Start talkin'."

"It- It was winter break." She manages, but her voice is shaky at best.

I just hum against her skin, dragging my tongue over her nipples again before moving to the other, giving it the same attention.

"Lena caught her girl cheating on her with another guy,"

"Mmhmm." I let the vibration sink into her skin.

"We went out dancing, got back late... started drinking--Shit, Shane!"

I blow a cool breath across her skin, watching her nipples tighten even more, and grin when her fingers tighten in my hair again.

"Keep going, baby."

I start moving lower, kissing my way down her stomach, tongue dipping into her belly button again.

Her breath hitches.

She's falling apart, and I ain't even started yet.

"We--we started talking about sex and playing, 'Never Have I Ever,' and she asked me if I liked having my pussy eaten--I- I hadn't yet."

"Mmhmm," I murmur against her stomach, my lips brushing her skin.

"When she asked why I told her I was always --t--too nervous, and she said women were the best at giving. We had a few more drinks, and she asked if I wanted her to show me."

"You said yes." Austin nods, swallowing hard.

"I was kinda drunk." She says like it's a confession.

I let out a low, dark chuckle and press my teeth lightly into her hip.

"So, you let another woman lick your pussy?"

"Yeah." That breathy little admission just might wreck me.

"Was it good?"

My fingers trace over that little '47' on her hip, watching the way her stomach tenses beneath my touch. She's ticklish, still.

I file that away.

"Yeah, Shane, it was good."

I hum against her skin, brushing my lips lower, down the soft curve of her hip. "How good?"

Her eyes are half-lidded, and her knees draw in just a little bit.

"Good enough that someone called the RA, twice."

"Is that right?"

"She had to cover my mouth, took it slow with me, and made me come for her a few times."

I let out a low, rough groan, pushing my forehead against her stomach for a second.

Then I look up at her, voice hoarse, thick with heat.

"She as good as me?"

I move down from the tattoo, shouldering my way between her legs.

Yeah, I wanted to fuck her, but now I feel like I got something to prove here. I let my breath ghost over her pussy.

She doesn't answer.

Oh, no, she doesn't.

I brush my lips against her, let my tongue dart out--just once, and there it is.

A heated broken moan.

She twitches, trying to wriggle away, but my arms lock around their thighs. I know she's a bit sensitive, so imma make sure she's got nowhere to go.

"Austin?"

I get the feeling she thinks I'm not really looking for an answer, but that's a load of bull.

I asked the question; I want an answer.

I drag my thumb up and down her slit, smearing her slick. Her mouth falls open and her eyes close.

"Asked you a question."

She makes some helpless little sound, and I swear to God, it makes my dick throb.

I wanna hear her, not necessarily to stroke my own ego but because either way, I win, scenario one, I am better than the woman who ate her pussy, or in scenario two, I ain't, but I still get that story while I make her cum again.

"Fuck--What?"

"Was her mouth as good as mine?" I let my tongue follow the path, my thumb up and over her clit. Her hips jerk, a strangled moan tearing its way out of her throat. She gasps and tries to pull away, but my grip tightens.

"Fuck, Shane! I don't know--it--it was ten years ago."

Not good enough.

I give her something more recent to compare it to and work over her a little more, finding her clit again and letting my tongue flutter over it slowly. Working her just right. Her mouth drops open, and her fingers dig into the bedspread. She's fighting it like she's got a shot in hell at that.

"Pick one."

I'm a bastard; I know that.

Only a bastard would try to get answers outta a woman while making her crave an orgasm.

I slip a finger inside her and start stroking her, searching out that spot that makes her body go tight again.

"Y-You, Shane, it's always been you."

I smirk, but I ain't quite done with this line of questioning.

"Why me?"

Fuck she's so close.

Her pussy's gripping my fingers like a vice as I slide in another, stroking deep, my tongue working her clit.

"Goddammit, Shane!"

She realizes what I'm doing now.

"Because--fuck--I don't want Lena, I want you!"

And that right there is all I needed.

A deep, satisfied moan rumbles outta my chest, vibrating against her slick, swollen pussy. With one slow, deliberate lick, I flatten my tongue, dragging it all the way up to her clit. I lock my lips around that little pearl and suck, letting my tongue dance back and forth over it, and the tension on her body just snaps.

"Shane! Ohmygod!"

I'm gentler this time when she comes down from a second orgasm; her cries lessen to the kind whimpers that remind me just how painfully hard my cock is. Her whole body is twitching with every brush of my lips, her skin flushed, sweat starting to bead along her chest, and when I take my fingers back, they're slick and wet, and again, I bring them to my mouth, don't think I could ever get enough of her taste.

Seeing her like this is more than satisfying. I crawl my way back up to her, and before I can say a damn thing, she pulls me down into a kiss.

It's wet, sloppy, and wild, and her tongue is everywhere in my mouth, seeking out that taste and fuck me; that's hot, the way she wants to taste herself and digs her nails into my biceps, pulling me deeper.

"That mouth of yours baby, gonna do a man in with it." Her body trembles against me as I settle between her still-shaking legs. I grab my cock and give it a few slow, tight pumps, my eyes fluttering as I do because fuck I need some attention now.

Fuck I need more

"Now I'm gonna fuck you."

I don't waste another second talking. I drag my cock through her slick heat before bracing my hands over her head; I drive home in one sharp thrust.

Jesus Christ.

She grips me so damn hard it knocks the breath clean out of my lungs. My muscles lock up, tension coiling through my body as she squeezes around me--hot, wet, still pulsing from the orgasm I just gave her. Every inch of her clutches at my cock, like she's trying to wring me dry before I even get the chance to move.

Fuck, that's good.

It would've been good even if we'd skipped to the main event, but those two orgasms before? They made this something else entirely. I need a minute, hell, maybe two.

"Jesus, baby--you feel fucking perfect," I rasp, voice thick with strain.

Knew it was gonna be a fight not to blow too soon, but that little college confession put me in deeper than I expected--literally and figuratively.

Her hands explore my arms, trailing from biceps to forearms, then curling into my wrists like she's holding on for dear life. Her legs flex against my sides, pulling me in closer, her heels digging into the small of my back.

I move--slow at first, dragging my cock from her inch by inch before sinking back in.

Her whole body reacts, shuddering against me, hips arching to meet every thrust. Her fingers slip up to the nape of my neck, nails grazing just enough to make my spine tingle.

I keep my rhythm steady and controlled. I'm not giving her all of it yet--not when I've got every intention of pulling another orgasm out of her before I even think about finishing.

She's gonna feel this--every inch, every thrust, every goddamn second. And I hope she does.

I want her to.

I want her thighs to shake when she stands, want the reminder of me burned into her muscles, want her to feel empty the second I'm not inside her.

She's a sight beneath me--flushed, breathless, back arching to meet every thrust.

Her tits move with each roll of my hips, a tease I can't ignore. I reach for them, palming the soft weight, rolling her nipples between my fingers--just to see. The way her lashes flutter, the way her breath catches before it spills into a whimper--I feel it everywhere.

"C'mere, baby," I murmur, my voice rough with want.

I press in, closing the space between us, catching her lips in a kiss that's slow-burning and deep, drawing her under with me. Her body molds to mine, warm and pliant, and for a second, I get lost in the taste of her, the way she sighs into my mouth like she needs this just as bad as I do.

Too lost.

My hips slow, rolling into hers with lazy precision, savoring her, and that's when I feel it--the shift.

Austin's never been one for patience.

She nips at my bottom lip, a not-so-subtle warning, then moves. Her mouth turns greedy, hungry, trailing down my jaw, my neck--sucking, biting, leaving behind the kind of mark that's gonna be hell to explain later.

"Lemme ride your cock, Shane."

What is it about a woman saying the word 'cock' that's just so fucking dirty?

She tightens around me as she says it, stealing the groan right out of my throat, and fuck--I don't know what's hotter. The way she says it, the way she's taking what she wants, or the fact that I want it just as bad.

I don't even realize I'm lifting my hips until she slips out from under me, rolling me onto my back. Then she's on top of me, her mouth tracing over my chest, hands roaming as she settles over my hips.

I feel her heat, her slickness--the head of my cock gliding against her, teasing the inevitable. A groan rumbles in my chest, my head dropping against the pillow. I fight to keep my goddamn eyes open--I need to watch her take me in.

Riding ain't my favorite way to have a woman.

Not because it ain't good--but because most women don't know how to use it proper.

They think it's all about the bounce, about riding hard, but they don't realize they can take their time--make a man suffer for it.

Austin?

She fucking knows.

My jaw clenches, as she sinks down onto me.

It starts with a smooth rock of her hips once she's taken all of me in. She pries my hands off her thighs, bringing them to her mouth, kissing each of my knuckles before sucking one finger at a time between those soft, wet lips.

Then, she guides my hands over my head.

"No touchin'."

I blink.

My eyes narrow.

The fuck?

While I'm not mad, I sure as hell ain't about to just lay here and take it. That ain't what I signed up for. Reaching up to touch is half the fun.

"Why the fuck not?"

She don't answer me--not with words.

That damn smile she's wearing--I don't think I've ever seen it before, but I already know I'll be chasing it for the rest of my goddamn life.

She leans down, brushes her lips over mine, drags her tongue slow and deep into my mouth--like she's drawing out the last of my restraint.

Then she pulls back, smirking down at me.

"So you can enjoy the show."

I freeze.

Maybe this is what I signed up for.

She rocks forward hard, enough to knock the air outta my chest, and I take a sharp breath.

My breath is uneven, my hands flexing against the sheets as I take in the sight of her perched on top of me, bare and glistening, fucking me at her pace.

"Tell me what you wanna see, Shane."

I don't hesitate.

"Touch yourself."

Simple.

Her hips slow to a lazy, torturous grind, rolling against my cock like she's got all night to ruin me.

Her hands--soft, slow, teasing--splay over my chest.

Her nails scrape down my skin, just enough for me to feel it.

"Where?"

I drag my half-lidded gaze down the path her fingers take--skimming her throat, trailing between her breasts, brushing over her stomach, ghosting over her hips.

And then--barely, just barely--between her legs.

Goddamn.

I've got a decision to make.

"Play with your tits."

Her smirk says she was expecting something filthier.

Nah.

I'm a simple man.

She tilts her head tilts to the side, then follows the order like a fucking dream.

Hands gliding up, light at first, fingertips brushing the stiff peaks before her thumbs circle--teasing.

And then--fuck.

She grabs.

Squeezes.

Rolling her hips slow and deep, and the moan that spills out of her might just fucking kill me.

"Tease your nipples, baby,"

I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, eyes locked on hers as she brings her fingertips to my mouth, letting me suck them into my mouth before pulling them back and rubbing my spit right on her nipples. Her breath hitches when she pinches softly and twists, and every time she does, she clamps down on my dick like a fucking vice and that's when I remember.

She's always been sensitive there.

I've made her come more than once from this alone--just sucking and playing with her nipples in the cab of my truck, her shirt pulled down, my mouth on her tits. Had her falling apart, riding my hand, soaking my fingers, begging for more.

Keening. Writhing. Moaning my name from the driver's seat.

Fuck.

I groan and grab the pillow my head is resting on because if I don't, I might just break her rule, and I got a feeling it would be a real good idea to follow her rule.

Call it a hunch.

The sounds she's making are like soft little cooing noises; her eyes closed, dark auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, goosebumps trailing down her arms and legs.

And that mouth.

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and it's such a goddamn cliché, but right now, it's the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen.

My control is hanging by a goddamn thread, and my hips jerk up, meeting hers.

It's her kiss swollen lips, and the way her body moves above me like she's savoring every second.

"Play with your pussy." The words slip out rough with need.

She hesitates--for half a second.

Then those delicate hands drift down, fingers trailing over her stomach, teasing over her hips, lower. And I watch-- transfixed. Hypnotized.

And when she spreads her lips and sucks on her finger before using it to start rubbing slow circles just above her clit. I swear to God--

I almost fucking lose it.

My hands tighten on the sheets. I should touch her. Should help. But I don't.

Because she knows herself better than anyone, watching her take herself apart for me? Showing me what gets her there?

Might be the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

Three orgasms in, I know she's gotta be sensitive; it's why her hips are jerking hard, but she's pushing herself for another. Her fingers find that swollen little clit, stroking softly at first, her lips parting as her breath catches. Kinda sound that makes my balls tighten.

I could die a happy man right now, but fortunately, death ain't on the table--Austin is.

Figuratively speaking.

Ah, hell. Maybe literally, if I have my way.

Her fingers start working faster, the gorgeous flush creeping back up and over her chest. Her lips parted for a delicate little moan, but it breaks like there ain't enough energy to push it out further. As the seconds go, her hips slow, and those desperate moans of hers shift into these soft, broken little mewls--like she's barely hanging on.

Fuck.

I know that sound. I love that sound.

She's close.

And that's a problem.

Because I didn't put a goddamn wrap on.

If she goes, I will too--there won't be any stopping it, not when she's clenched this tight around me, not when she's already got me hanging by a thread.

And that? That's how I die.

Not because I wouldn't love to see my cum dripping out of her or that gorgeous body soft with my baby--Jesus Christ, that thought alone makes my hips jerk up too hard but because her daddy? He'd put me in the goddamn ground.

That thought's enough to snap me out of it.

I grab her hands, forcing her to stop, and she snaps out of her trance real quick, looking downright offended.

"What're you--?" Her voice is all breathless frustration, but I don't let her finish.

Can't. Not while I'm rolling her onto her back, reaching for the nightstand, ripping the drawer open, and making a grab for the condom I should've put on the second she climbed on top of me.

The sound of the wrapper tearing is all the answer she needs, and she finally catches on, but does she take the moment to recover?

Nope.

She just lays back, watching me roll it on, spreading her legs, one hand still working slow circles on her clit, the other teasing her nipple.

Jesus.

My jaw goes tight, my pulse throbbing in my ears.

"You tryna kill me, baby?"

She doesn't answer. Just smirks. And keeps playing.

I'm back on her like I never left, my mouth claiming hers, swallowing the needy moans I pull from her when I take over, palming her tits, brushing my thumb in slow circles over her tight little bud.

She tries to keep touching herself, but I push her hand away, pinning it to the bed.

No, no, baby, that's my job now.

Something deep rumbles through my chest when she grinds herself against me and seems a little eager to pick up where we left off.

Her hair spills over my pillow, hazel eyes dark, wrecked--and fuck, that does something to me.

I don't give her a warning.

I pull back and thrust deep, watching the way her lips part, her nails digging into my shoulders.

She winces, just barely--but it ain't pain. It's the kinda pleasure that sets deep in your bones.

So, I do it again, grinding into her on the next thrust, and I don't bother biting back my groan.

"Shane, more--gimme more. I need it--"

This ain't the girl from ten years ago.

This Austin Walker?

This is the woman I've got beneath me right now--the one who knows what she wants and ain't shy about taking it.

The realization slams into me like a punch to the gut.

I'm the only one who knows her like this.

Something sharp and possessive sinks deep in my chest.

She's still catching her breath, the flush crawling down her neck, the heat still in her skin. I watch her come back down, eyes fluttering open as her fingers skim the back of my neck, stroking soft.

"Shane?"

That voice.

That fucking voice.

"You need it, baby?"

I smirk at her. The one that's somewhere between a smirk and a promise. The one that's probably made a few women weak in the knees.

Hell, it worked on her once too.

But this time, I don't give her space to call me on it.

Instead, I roll my hips forward, slow.

Slow enough to feel her. Slow enough to watch the way her eyes flutter shut, her breath hitching, her fingers clenching against my skin.

"Don't worry, baby--I'll give it to you."

And I go to work.

Ten years.

Nearly a decade since we were kids, laying in the bed of my pickup--nothing but a sleeping bag, a letterman jacket for a pillow, and the kind of reckless want that made everything feel simple.

Ten years of life.

Of experiences.

Of relationships, jobs, noise--shit that buried the past under a hundred layers of day-to-day survival.

But now?

Now, we're right back in our own little pocket of quiet. No noise from the world outside this room. Just heated breaths and murmurs.

And fuck--She feels so good wrapped around me.

Familiar.

Like home.

And it wrecks me.

I didn't mean to get this lost in her--Didn't mean to let it hit me this deep. But then--Her fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back, her mouth latching onto my throat. She licks, bites, sucking deep like she wants to mark me.

Lightning.

It rips through me, white-hot and undeniable. And just like that--I'm a hair-trigger away from coming harder than I ever have in my life.

Ain't got much longer.

I wanted to make this last all goddamn night. But I know my limits.

And right now? I'll die of blood loss to my brain before I manage that.

I pull out of her grasp, ducking down, mouth latching hard onto her nipple. Sucking like I need it. Tongue swirling, teasing--occasional nips from my teeth that have her clenching down like a fucking vice.

The sounds she makes are wild. Feral.

She writhes beneath me, desperate for more. And I'm more than happy to give it to her-- Just not in the way she thinks.

I pin both her hands in one of mine, pressing them above her head. Holding her still while I touch, tease, and trail my way down her body. Settling between her legs.

And I go to work.

Feather-light strokes send her jumping, writhing. Her hips buck when I circle her clit with my thumb, grinding against my hand, trying to take what she wants.

"That's right, baby. Take it."

She strains against my grip, fighting me with everything she has-- But it ain't enough.

"Open your eyes, baby. I wanna see you."

It takes her a second-- I know she's drowning in it, barely hanging on-- But she does it.

And the second her eyes meet mine, I thrust deep. Pick up the pace on her clit.

"Shane, for the love of God!!"

Jesus.

I had so many plans to do so much more. But right now? I'm too fucking desperate to drag this out. And so is she.

Didn't I say this was gonna be an all-nighter?

"I want one more from you, Austin."

Her eyes widen--But before she can protest, I pull out, flip her onto her stomach.

She's disoriented from the shift, but the second I sink back inside her--deep-- She finds her bearings real quick fucking back against my cock and A sharp cry tumbles past her lips.

I grip her thighs--not her hips. I'm so deep, she's shaking beneath me, mouth falling open. My fingers slip back between her legs, and I work her, rubbing tight circles, dragging her higher.

"Fuck--Shane, I--I can't!"

I'm right there with her, but I've got enough control to hold out. Trying to steal one more from her.

"Yes, you can, baby. And I want it."

I drive into her harder, deeper, until every thrust has her crying out, losing herself. The sound of skin on skin, our labored breaths, the bed shaking beneath us--

Everything builds, spiraling, winding tighter and tighter.

"Let go, baby. Need to feel you come all over my cock."

Her whole body locks up. Hot, tight, fucking perfect. I can feel it building--

Something sharp, electric, curling hot and tight at the base of my spine.

And then--

She shatters.

I feel it before I hear it--

The way her body trembles.

The way her breath catches.

The way her spine arches, pushing her ass back against me, like she needs me to give it to her just a little more.

Then--That sound.

That sharp, breathless cry.

The one I already know is gonna live in my head rent-free for the rest of my goddamn life.

Fuck.

The second it rips from her throat, my grip tightens-- Fingers digging into her soft skin.

And then I lose it.

Control snaps like a live wire, and I start pounding into her--hard, deep--chasing it down.

"Fuck--Austin--"

I drive one more time-- Deep as I can go, wishing like hell there wasn't anything between us. No condom no nothing. And then It fucking hits.

Like a lightning strike.

A groan claws out of my throat--deep, guttural-- My entire body locking up. Every muscle tightening.

I come so fucking hard, I swear I see stars.

For a second, I swear the world tilts.

My arms shake just trying to keep myself upright. I don't pull out--can't.

Not yet.

Instead, I drop onto my forearms, pressing her into the mattress. Pinning her beneath me-- Right where she belongs.

She's breathing hard. Skin hot. Body soft, wrecked, perfect against mine.

And I fucking love it.

Neither of us says a word. We don't need to.

Just the sound of our breathing. The heat of our skin. The way her body still twitches against mine.

Fuck.

If this is what it feels like losing myself in her?

I don't know how the hell I'm ever gonna stop.

She's shaking beneath me, and suddenly, I feel like a goddamn idiot. I push myself up, panic creeping in.

"Shit--Austin, you alright?"

Her heavy breathing evens out, and after a minute, I hear a lazy, muffled 'mmhmm' against the mattress.

Not good enough.

"Words, baby. Did I hurt you?"

I roll onto my side, worry gnawing at me, reaching for her shoulder. She turns her head, slow, unhurried, the definition of wrecked and content--eyes heavy, lips curled into the laziest, satisfied smirk.

"M'fine."

Her drawl is deeper than I've heard it since she's been back, thick with exhaustion, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Jus' don't make me get up anytime soon."

I chuckle, grinning like a damn fool.

"Legs ain't working, huh?"

She chuckles, curling deeper into the mattress, still smiling. The bed dips as I get up, heading to the bathroom, then dips again when I come back a minute later and she hasn't moved.

I slide into bed, wrap an arm around her, and pull her naked body flush against mine. The sheet settles over us, and she snuggles right in.

"Ain't gonna make you move--" I murmur, pressing my lips to hers. "Might wake you up in a few hours, though."

"Promise?"

Her leg drapes over mine, warm, soft. The faint scent of oranges and ginger drifts off her skin, sinking into me like a drug. I hold her tight. She doesn't mind.

I'll let her sleep a few hours. But I promised her an all-nighter.

And I'm a man of my word.

Austin Walker is in my bed for the first time in ten years.

And just before I drift off, the thought cuts through the haze like a blade:

I won't survive losing her again.

Hey everyone, if you enjoyed this story, then let me know; I love hearing your feedback. Even a simple 'Love it' makes all the difference in motivating me to carve out more time for these stories. I'm not sure if Shane and Austin's story is over yet, but if you guys would like more spicy Southern romance, I could probably come up with something else. So, if you're hungry for more, drop me a comment, and be sure to follow me so you don't miss a thing. I know it takes a while to update and add new works, but I try to make sure I give you something to chew on; these stories take time.

Thanks for reading.