Page 87 of Fixing to Be Mine

“Us,” Stormy says.

His laughter echoes into the night. “Y’all look guilty.”

“Bitch, so do you,” I tell him, and we continue.

“I get to be the best man! I’m claiming it first!” Emmett hollers with a chuckle.

“Remi is my best man,” I say over my shoulder. “Her balls are bigger than yours.”

He howls with laughter as I lead Stormy to the truck. I give her a soft kiss before I close the door.

Once I’m inside and crank the engine, she turns to me. “You think he heard my moans?”

“Possible.” I chuckle. “But I dunno how long he’s been there.”

By the time we pull into the driveway, it’s late. The house is dark, except for the porch light I left on earlier. I run around and open her door, and instead of letting her walk, I lift her into my arms and carry her. I kick the truck door shut.

“This is princess treatment.” She wraps her arms around my neck, kissing right under my ear. “You’re too romantic,” she says, squeezing her thighs together.

“Nah, just Southern.” I set her down on the porch and steal another kiss.

We head inside without turning on the lights. I catch her watching me in the glow of the living room lamp.

She looks tired in the way that comes after incredible sex, not exhaustion. Her body is loose, eyes soft, lips parted just slightly, like she hasn’t quite caught up to what the night gave her.

“Want to take a shower with me?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow. “Right now?”

“Yes,” I say. “While I wouldn’t mind getting you naked again, I’m sweaty, I smell like campfire, and I want to rinse off. The invitation is open. Always.”

She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Sure. I’d like that.”

I reach for her hand and lead her down the hall.

When we walk in the bathroom, I flick on the light, and she removes her dress, leaving it in a heap by the door. The mirror throws our reflection back at us, and we’re equal parts wild and spent.

I turn on the shower, giving the pipes a second to shudder awake as I undress. Her arms slide around my waist, fingers splayed across my stomach, and her cheek settles between my shoulder blades. We stand, quiet, listening to the water gather force.

Steam fogs the edges of the mirror first. When the shower’s hot, I guide her in, watching her hair darken and stick to her skin. She doesn’t shiver; she just tilts her head back, lets the water fall on her face, and stays like that, breathing, the corners of her mouth softening.

I grab a bar of soap and work up a lather, hands slick and careful, trailing over her arms, down her back, mapping every hard-earned line. She leans into my touch, and her throat releases a sound that’s half purr, half prayer.

“You ever get tired of taking care of everything?” she asks, voice muffled by the hiss of the shower.

“Sometimes,” I admit, rinsing her shoulders. “But it makes me feel useful, I guess. Like I’m doing something that matters to someone besides myself.”

She turns to face me, eyes searching mine. “It does matter.”

I wash her hair, fingers digging gently at her scalp. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall forward, surrendering to it, and I hold her up with an arm around her rib cage. We don’t talk for a while. Just the rhythm of water, the regularity of our breathing, the comfort of each other’s bodies.

I don’t know what is written on her skin or how many times someone else has used or hurt her, but that ends now. Stormy is mine.

When we’re clean, we towel off together, and I give her another one of my T-shirts, loving to see them on her. I don’t bother with anything but boxers. We collapse onto the mattress, limbs tangled.

The only light left in the house is the lamp by my bed, and I reach over and turn it off. She curls into me, fingertips tracing the family brand tattooed on my chest.

Her breathing slows. “Thank you for the best date of my life.”

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