Page 11 of Forty

Still no movement in the house. I lean on the horn again, and I keep the pressure on until I see the curtains flutter. Then the porch light flickers on, the door flies open, and there she is. Every muscle in my body goes as hard as stone.

I round the truck, stalk forward, my legs drawn to her, my brain struggling keeping up. Nevaeh Ellis. She’s here. In real life.

She’s the same. But more.

The force of her standing there sends a sizzle of electricity down every nerve, priming me like the sound of gunfire.

She’s framed by the doorway, backlit, her mess of curls still the biggest thing about her. No matter that round ass and those thick thighs, she’s so damn small. Short and compact. She’s got her hands on her hips, and damn, but they’re even curvier than I remember.

“Lay off the horn, asshole!”

I already have. I’m nearly on her; she’s almost in my arms. I need to see her face, plunge my hands in that wild hair, shake her and make her cry and take her mouth until she whimpers with need. I’m furious, horny, and crushed, sickened by the weight of time passed. It’s been too long.

Then when I get four, five feet away, her chin loses the arrogant tilt. She crosses her arms, hugging herself. Glances over her shoulder into the house. Is she scared? Nevaeh Ellis? No way.

Still, I stop. I’m a few steps away from the porch, and I can make out every inch of her now. She’s wearing a white long-sleeved sweatshirt with a rainbow across the chest. It’s cropped, revealing the gentle swell of her belly. She’s got on a pair of white boy shorts, so tight I can see the cleft of her pussy lips.

I stand, shoulders back and level with my chest, heels together, arms at my side. I realize as I’m doing it that I’m standing at attention, presenting myself to her, and blood rushes to my cock. I’m as ready as I’ve ever been. It takes everything in me to be still while she fidgets, gnawing her bottom lip, scratching her heel with the toe of the opposite foot.

Then her big, brown eyes dip below my belt. She snorts, the fear or whatever it was gone. “At least someone in this town is happy to see me.” Her gaze slides to my truck. “Where’s your bike?”

My face burns, but damn if my cock doesn’t press harder against my zipper. “Where are your pants?”

She rolls her eyes. “Same place you left your manners, I suppose.” She wrinkles her nose. “NoHi, Nevaeh? How are you? Long time, no see?”

“Hello, Nevaeh.”

I’m close enough to see her shiver when I say her name. Goosebumps pucker her belly and legs. It’s early spring, and it’s cold out here. Where’s her jacket? Where are hershoes? She’s in her socks. White with pom poms on the heels. They’ve got to be filthy on the bottoms.

She ducks her head, suddenly shy, and her hair shifts. I see a bruise above her eye. It doesn’t look fresh, but it’s hard to tell with the shadows. I steel myself as a wave of aggression rolls over me.

I jerk my chin toward the shiner. “Danielle fix your face?”

“Which one’s Danielle? The one with the hair or the one with the eyebrows.”

“The eyebrows.” I can’t act like I don’t know what she means. Danielle paints those suckers on. They make an impression. Cheyenne must be the one with the hair. It’s always some color or another.

“Nah. That one’s all mouth.”

“What were you doing at the clubhouse?”

“Looking for you.”

“We have no business.”

“I wanted to talk.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

She winces like she’s hurt. Fuck. My abs tense, and my fingertips twitch, like they want to grab the words back.

She swallows, and her gaze dips before rising again. “You look different.” Her voice is shy.

She doesn’t look different at all. Except for the tiniest laugh lines at the corner of her eyes and twenty or so extra pounds, most packed on her ass and thighs, she’s the same. Messy. Squirmy. Beautiful.

“You’re taller than I remember.” She offers me a half-smile, a quirked corner of her mouth. My breath catches in my lungs.

I am taller. I left for basic before that last growth spurt. I got on a plane, and she got under every asshole she could the minute the wheels took off from the runway. Several helpful sweetbutts sent me blurry pics. Nevaeh sitting in some loser’s lap. Nevaeh grinding on a Rebel Raider at a bonfire. The stale, familiar rage rocks me in my boots.

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