Page 28 of Braving the Storm
She’s gone before I can say anything. Disappearing out into the lounge, leaving me there, on my own bed, with a raging hard-on, the ghost of her touch lingering on my skin, and surrounded by her intoxicating scent.
Chapter 10
There are seventy-eight planks in the ceiling above this couch. One has a sequence of dark knots in the amber-colored wood that makes it look like a dog’s face. Long snout. Eyes. The whole effect is rather surreal. Like one of those visual tricks, once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
I spent the night lying wide awake. My body tingling with forbidden temptation and sulking with shame, and generally twisted all the way the fuck up on the inside as I replayed the events from the bathroom and the bedroom.
Holy fucking shit.
One glance at my uncle’s bare chest, his expanse of tattoos… my pussy just about climbed in his lap to start grinding on him of her own volition.
Little slut.
Why he was half-naked and in the bathroom at god-knows-what-hour is a mystery for another day.
What is now going to lurk in my mind, dangerously peeking around the corner on the regular to remind me with flashes and glimpses of memory imprinted upon my brain, is how his body is so fucking hot. He’s hot. Hotter than a man who is my uncle should have the audacity to be.
It’s obvious he’s muscled, defined, broad through his chest and arms. I mean, a girl can see that without any need to strip his clothes off. But his torso is sculpted, impossibly honed off the time spent on the rodeo circuit during his professional years, and nowadays, through the back-breaking hours of labor he puts in working on ranches like Devil’s Peak.
Those indents leading into a dusting of dark hair and a v pointing straight below his belt; well, shit. I was blissfully unaware of how erotic a man’s hard-worn body could look.
Especially more so when covered in ink.
Now, I’m going to be most likely walking around in a daze, itching to run my fingers across that stretch of skin and firm muscle.
That compulsion I lay awake all night fighting is heightened and brightened up toabsolutely goddamn blindingon the scale because I know exactly what the man’s back muscles feel like.
There is a snapshot in my mind of every indent, dip, and ripple falling below the slope of his neck. Everything extending from his mussed hair down has been cataloged by my fingertips. Where his shoulder blades moved, the fleshy part across the tops of his spine flexed, the indentation running the long length to the waistband of his pants.
My throat bobs a heavy swallow of guilt.
Didn’t think clearly last night before climbing on that bed and massaging him without warning, obviously.
Although… I regret nothing.
Was I also a teeny tiny bit spurred on to do what I did because I’d convinced myself he’d gone off to slide into some girl’s bed last night?
Hell yes, I was. Pettiness and horniness teamed up to make an insane decision. Before I knew what was happening, I had my hands all over him.
I don’t want to admit how much it stung when he disappeared abruptly without warning. Just when it felt like we’d settled intosomething comfortable, an ease flowing between us, a familiarity I’ve been craving, he upped and headed out the door.
Leaving me alone, but mostly confused and swimming in a sea of heightened emotions at the thought he had someplace better to be.
Someone he’d much rather be with.
It dredged up all my memories of nights on my own.Sorry, honey, I’ve got to work late. You know what these client deadlines are like.
When the reality was much more willing to be a convenient fuck in the meeting room.
Ugh. I want to bleach my memory of that man and his terrible dick and how pathetic I was to not see the signs. Nausea rolls through me whenever I stop and think, even for one second, how many people knew, and didn’t say anything.
How many people back there—not that I want to call that hell hole home anymore because it’s not—were laughing at me on the daily? Did they have group chats gossiping over my failure to keep a man faithful? Was the running joke how easy it was to manipulate poor, pathetic Briar Lane?
The urge to hurl up my bacon and eggs comes on strong.
I spin the handle on my coffee mug back and forth, letting it rotate on the wooden table, the coffee and creamer swirling inside as I do so.
It’s how I imagine the contents of my brain are sloshing around, encased by skull and cerebral fluid.
