“See why I didn’t want you to come?”
Time for a fresh start.
Twenty
Amber
Two strong knocks rapped on my door just after ten o’clock at night. I didn’t have a peephole. Anxiety weakened my voice.
“Hello?” I squeaked out.
“Hey, it’s me. Colt.”
I opened the door wide, and a tired, weary cowboy stood before me.
“Oh my God, what happened? You look terrible!”
He placed both of his large, now callused hands on both sides of my face and kissed with every bit of passion I think he had.
“I love you, Amber Atwood.”
His clothes were drenched as I felt around his waist for injuries. There were none. I touched his right hand, and it was badly swollen. I focused on it.
“You’re hurt. Sit down.” I went to the fridge and grabbed one of the snap ice packs and a dish towel. I wrapped it around his fist. “Hold it in place,” I commanded.
His face was laced with pain, and he gritted his teeth. When he saw the worry on my face, he turned his wincing into a grin.
“I’m okay. Your brother is okay, too. He’s at the house. I had to see you. I wanted to let you know I’m safe.” He paused. “You have some alcohol? This is going to sting for a few hours.”
“Sure. I have bourbon. I have—”
“Bourbon. That’s the one. Neat. Thanks.”
On my tiptoes, I reached for my special square tumblers. I brought the bourbon out of the alcohol cabinet, pouring the dirty brown liquid in the glass for him.
“Ice?”
“No. Just like that. Get ready for the re-up. This shit hurts.”
I didn’t take my eyes off him.
“Baby, I’m not going to pass out, if that’s what you think. Plus, you ain’t going to be able to lift me off the ground in a hurry.” He chortled a little. I tried to hide the little smile creeping up, but he saw it. “There it is. I knew that smile was in there.”
“Here, drink this and shut up,” I commanded.
“Yes, ma’am.” He tossed it back in one fell swoop.
“Another?”
“Yes.” I poured him another one, and this time, I drew down a glass and poured myself one. I added ice.
“Joining in the party?” he asked spicily.
“Yes, I am. Now tell me what the hell happened out there. Why is your hand like that?”
He shifted to the couch and drove his muscular frame into it, dropping his head back. Fuming, I stood in front of him, demanding answers. My chest was heaving from anger, and I knew my cheeks were rosy. My hair most likely looked wild, but I didn’t care. Neither did he.
His eyes turned to darkened, hungry desire. He reached his long arms up under the length of my nightgown and cupped my butt, bringing me forward to his face. He pressed his head into my center, his non-injured hand roaming around near the softness of my belly, and my anger subsided, replaced with decadent longing. He pulled the waistband of my panties down swiftly. I threw my head back as I placed my hands on both of his shoulders. He stroked the opening where the lava ran. I felt like I was on a slippery slide of desire as his tongue did the work. I moaned out loud, gasping for air. A raging fire burned through my soul at his deft touch.
