Page 14 of Kind of a Dirty Talker

“That’s right.” She winks. “Don’t worry, you’ll find a woman to worship someday soon. I’m sure of it.”

I arch a brow, wondering if she knows something I don’t.

Has Tessa said something? About what happened between us? About maybe wishing it could happen again? This time while we’re locked in the bonds of a serious, committed relationship?

I shake my head, dismissing the thought as I head toward the back of the barn. If Mel knew, she would have said something before now. She probably would have read me the riot act for being a dirty cheating asshole who upset her best friend. At the very least, I would have received a stern warning to treat Tessa like a fucking queen.

But I haven’t heard a word from my sister. Tessa and I promised each other we wouldn’t speak about what happened with anyone else, and Tessa’s not the kind to break a promise.

Neither am I, a fact that’s made all of this so much harder.

I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about my mistake or the fallout or how desperately I wish I could turn back time and do things differently. I knew that night in the woods that the connection I felt with Tessa was special, but I didn’t realize how special until the chance of seeing her again was off the table.

Since then, I’ve been plagued by the gut-churning suspicion that she’s The One. My One. And I was hers and one stupid mistake on my part ruined that for both of us.

Maybe forever.

I’ve tried to approach her, to explain myself and talk it out, at least a dozen times, but every time Tessa sees me headed her way, she finds a reason to vanish.

When I step outside in the cool, spring evening, I half expect her to be gone.

But she isn’t. She’s there, at the far edge of the cluster of fire pits—where my teenage cousins are flirting with the few non-McGuire girls at the reception—beyond the strings of golden lights strung for the occasion, back by the oak tree. She’s in the swing my brothers and sisters and I kept busy when we were small, drifting slowly back and forth, her dress fluttering in the breeze like something out of a dream.

I take a breath, my heart racing as I make my way through the campfire smoke toward her, the scent sending visceral reminders of our night by the fire rushing through me. My fingers tingle with the memory of how soft her skin felt beneath my hands, my lips prickle with the need to press against hers again.

I haven’t been with another woman since Tessa. I’ve kissed a few, but it never went further than that. No matter how lonely I’ve been, I didn’t want it to. After that rush, that connection I felt with Tessa, after the way she welcomed everything I had to give, no holding back, all other women seem two-dimensional in comparison.

I’m beginning to suspect I might be in love with her, as wild as that might seem after just one night, and this could be it—my long-awaited shot to turn things around, to convince her that I can be worthy of her, if she’ll only give me a second chance.

I’m almost to the swing, close enough to smell her light, floral perfume on the breeze, when it happens. A long, sleek shadow separates from the tree trunk and dashes toward me, flowing gracefully over the rocky dirt like an eel slipping through water.

As it zips closer, I have a split second to notice the big blue ribbon tied around the creature’s neck—a ribbon the exact shade of Tessa’s dress—before it leaps at my crotch, fangs bared.

Chapter 7

TESSA

One second, Freya is chilling peacefully near my feet, digging at something between the roots of the tree. The next, she emits a clucking battle cry and charges into the shadows behind the swing.

I spin, half expecting to see a drunken Nate coming back for another unwanted cuddle.

But it isn’t Nate, it’s Wesley. He isn’t moving quickly or aggressively—the things that would usually set Freya off—but I’ve been fostering my cousin Nancy’s ferret long enough to know when she’s in attack mode.

My lips part in a warning for Wes to back off, but it’s too late. Freya is already leaping into the air, her sharp fangs aimed between his legs.

I bolt from the swing as my heart leaps into my throat, every cell in my body electrified with panic. I may be annoyed at Wesley right now, but not annoyed enough to wish harm upon any part of him—especially that part I can’t stop dreaming about, fantasizing about, moaning about as I guide my vibrator between my legs and wish he were in bed with me to pull my hair and tell me what an incredible fuck I am.

“No, Freya! Down! Let him go!” I rush toward the scene of my volatile charge’s latest attack, praying I can get her dislodged before she does permanent damage. “Wesley, hold still! Don’t move.”

“Not moving,” he says, freezing in a bow-legged position with his arms raised in surrender that has the teenagers behind him snickering. And yes, he looks funny with his legs spread and a long, writhing ferret dangling between his thighs, but it isn’t kind to laugh at another person’s misfortune, even if you are sixteen and have yet to develop an adult-sized helping of empathy.

Glancing their way, I snap, “You three, go get Barrett. We need a doctor out here, ASAP. Go. Now! If he bleeds to death when she lets go, I’m blaming you for standing there giggling when you should be going for help.”

The teens hustle away, and I lower my voice, “Okay, Freya, calm down. We all just need to calm down.”

“I won’t bleed to death,” Wesley says, triggering another round of aggressive dooking from Freya. Dooking is the ferret equivalent to “barking,” but it sounds more like a husky chicken cluck than a bark.

“Hush,” I whisper. “She doesn’t like loud male voices.”

---