“But while I wouldn’t be upset with you for forgiving him because he’s your father, and you should have a relationship with him if that’s what you wanted, I can’t do that.” She pivots, faces me again. Pain and that remorse still darken her gaze, but a hardness I haven’t witnessed on her before tautens the skin across her strong facial bones, sets her mouth in a grim line. “I know we’re supposed to forgive, let bygones be bygones, but he doesn’t get that from me. If it’d just been me, that’d be one thing. But he abandoned you. He deprived you of a father, of a different life. He hurt you. That’s unforgiveable. So no, I cannot go back to him.”
I can’t speak. But I can move.
Covering the short space that separates us, I pull her into a hug and hold tight.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, sweetie.”
An hour later, I jog up the four concrete steps to the lower-level Stapleton condo. An urgency that pumps through my veins pushes me across the porch to the front door. I pull open the storm door, mentally reminding myself to get on her for leaving it unlocked. After knocking on her front door, I wait. But the sense of need rides me, and I damn near vibrate with it.
Shit, I should’ve called. Texted. Something. It’s—I turn my wrist over, glance down at my watch—7:46 on a Monday night. She might still be at the office but not out with Daniel. He’s on the road for the first of two back-to-back road games. But she could still be anywhere—
The door opens, and Miriam stands in the entrance.
For a long moment, all I can do is stare.
Then I’m moving.
Then I’m on her. Gathering her in my arms. Holding her close. Tight. So fucking tight.
I didn’t know until she opened that door how much I needed her. Needed her arms around me. That curvy body pressed to mine. That cinnamon-and-vanilla scent in my nose. The sound of her breath in my ear. The beat of her pulse under my mouth.
She doesn’t ask any questions, just holds me. And when I straighten, lifting her in my arms and pressing her to the nearest wall of her small foyer, she still doesn’t utter a word of protest. She just winds her legs around my hips and clings to me, granting me the comfort of her body, her silence, her unconditional support.
Seconds, minutes—hell, hours—pass as we stand there, joined together. After a while, the urgency that chased me from my mom’s house, pursued me to Stapleton, and propelled me through her front door starts to ease, and the tension ebbs from my frame.
But as I calm, another, different need starts to sneak in. A darker, edgier one.
That sultry, provocative musk calls to me, and I answer, burying my face in that nook where her neck and shoulder meet. I inhale, closing my eyes, remembering in vivid, technicolor detail just where the fragrance is heavier, more condensed ... headier. The valley between her breasts. The indentation of her waist. The back of her knee.
The wet, hot depths of her pussy.
The small perfect mounds of her breasts swell against my chest, and,fuck, the peaks of her nipples graze me, torture me. And thoughit’s impossible, the sweet heat of her burns me through her thin joggers and my jeans.
With a Herculean effort, I slowly lower her to the ground and back away.
My mind congratulates me, but my arms, my cock, yells, “What. The. Fuck?”
Hauling in a breath, I turn away from her on the pretense of closing the door I left standing wide open. Taking those precious few moments to get my shit together, I grip the knob, nearly strangling the hell out of it.
“Jordan?”
“Yeah?” Tunneling both hands through my hair, I grip the loose strands, fisting them at the back of my head. “I’m sorry.” I finally spin around, facing her, the apology spilling from me.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says.
I smirk, but it feels fake on my mouth, and from her solemn expression and her watchful, steady gaze, I’m guessing it looks that way too.
“Nothing, yeah? Not even jumping on you like aNational Geographicspecial as soon as you opened the door?”
“I’m not complaining, am I?”
I drag my gaze over her, savoring everything from the tight blonde curls down to the black tank top stretched over her pretty little tits and on to the gray-and-pink polka-dot joggers molded to her gorgeous hips and ass and thick, toned thighs. My fingers itch to dig into those hips, mark them, bruise them like I did once before. She hadn’t seemed to mind them. On the contrary. She’d given me some of her own ...
“No, you’re not.”
After pushing off the wall, she approaches me and, with no hesitation, wraps her fingers around mine. If she could only glimpse the thoughts charging through my head, she might grant me a wide berth.
