Page 78 of Fierce Love
He turns and gives a wave.
“Can you send me the video you took?” she asks, holding up her phone.
“Sure,” he says with an easy grin, and the car heads off down the lane.
“Video?” I ask.
“Maren asked me to take a video of Kinsley realizing she was getting Henry—” He hesitates for a beat and gives me the side-eye. “I mean, thatIwas getting Henry.”
“Of course,” I say, unable to resist winding my arms around his middle now that we’re alone except for our own security detail. “Can I see it?”
“You’ll cry too,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders as we head into the house.
“I’m not a crier,” I say with confidence. As a kid, when I cried, my mom hit me harder. Tears mean pain, and not just the emotional sort. I outgrew the instinct my mother honed in me a little with my aunt, but I never got over it completely.
“I was a fucking mess watching her. Best thing I’ve ever done,” he says, leading me to the couch and tugging me down beside him. “I thought I’d never top the Mia Malone concert, but I did.”
He clicks into his messages and attaches the file for Kinsley before sending it. Then he hands me his phone before getting up and going to the kitchen.
I click on the play button, and at first, I think I’ll be totally fine watching it. Her confusion over the dog being at the house is cute. But as the video progresses and Kinsley realizes what Nate’s done, it’s not her crying that makes tears spring to my eyes—it’s how hard she’s tryingnotto sob with joy. How often have I seen someone cry tears of joy? And for the person to be someone I love as much as Kinsley makes my heart feel too big for my chest.
Her excitement and happiness are clearly overwhelming her, and she’s fighting to hold it together. She keeps asking Nate if he’s sure, and every time he says yes, her control seems to crack a little more. Until she’s on the ground, the dog clutched to her chest, crying so hard she can barely breathe.
A box of tissues appears in front of my face as the video ends, and I realize I am, in fact, crying. Tears are streaming down my face.
“Oh my god,” I breathe out. “She really loves that dog.”
“And honestly, that dog really loves her. You didn’t see it, but he follows her everywhere. He’s on her lap the minute she stops moving. He picked her as much as she picked him.”
“How are you this good?” I ask, dabbing at my eyes. Now that I’m older, it makes even less sense that someone like Nate could share genetics with Jonathan and Celia. They’re people who take, take, take, and Nate’s someone who gives, gives, gives.
There’s never been much I could give him in return. Once I’ve got my tears under control, I tug at the waistband of his jeans,drawing him closer. Then I’m undoing the button, drawing the zipper down while I stare up at him.
“I thought you’d be mad,” he murmurs.
“I was,” I say, releasing him from his boxer briefs.
“I thought you might kick me out.” His hands sink into my hair as I hover over his hard length.
“Of your own house?” I grip him, moving my hand up and down.
“Yeah,” he says with a strained chuckle, his gaze locked on the movement of my hand.
“Considered it,” I say even though I didn’t. Then I lick a line up his shaft. “Decided I’d rather fuck out my frustrations.”
“That’s an A-plus in conflict resolution.” He groans as I take him into my mouth, rotating my tongue around his head. “Fuck, Hols. That feels… so good.”
“Might be a bit of gratitude mixed in with my frustration,” I say before I suck him in deep again.
“Gratitude?” His voice is hoarse.
“I’ve never seen my sister so happy.” I swirl my tongue around and around.
“It was… it was my pleasure.”
“It’s about to be,” I say, meeting his gaze before taking him deep again.
Then I let myself get lost in the pleasure I’m giving him, in the sounds he’s making, in the way he’s barely maintaining control. Sex was one of the only times in our relationship where I felt like I had the upper hand when we were younger, where he was content to let me lead, set the pace. The imbalance I often felt between us out in the world—whether it was about money or social status or even just our upbringing—became nonexistent in the bedroom, or wherever we chose to be together. It’s the same heady sensation now, to know I have the power to make him lose control, to beg for more, to plead for release.
