Page 130 of From the Wreckage
When Bri’s voice finally goes quiet, the cabin door creaks open. I turn, watching as she carries her laptop inside.
A few minutes later, she walks toward us, sunlight catching in her hair. Her sunflower necklace glints at her collarbone, and her smile is genuine. She hasn’t healed, but she’s working on it.
My chest damn near bursts.
Grayson sees her too, pride softening the hard edges of his face.
She steps onto the dock, moving toward us. I set my rod aside and reach out a hand, pulling her into the space between us.
For one fleeting moment, it’s all here—peace, hope, and family. The kind of picture you want to frame in your mind and never let fade.
CHAPTER 97
Brielle
The fire crackles,shadows flickering across Everett’s cabin. I’m curled against him on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. Outside, the rain begins pattering against the roof, soft at first, then heavier.
He glances at me, and something passes between us—unspoken, inevitable. We rise at the same time, slipping out onto the back deck, the air cool and damp. The rain falls harder, soaking us as he pulls me into his arms.
We dance. Slowly at first, laughter bubbling out of me as I cling to him. The rain pours harder, streaming down our faces, until he finally sweeps me back inside, both of us breathless.
“I need to get towels and dry you off.” He disappears down the hallway, and I stare at the way his shirt and jeans cling to his body. Butterflies flap their wings in my stomach. The man is sexy as hell, and not just because he’s still built like the football player he was. It’s the way he takes care of me. The way he notices things about me that no one else notices. The way he’s so in tune with me, it’s as though he can read my mind.
I’m trembling as I wait for him to return. Not from the cold, but from everything I’m feeling.
When he comes back, his hair dripping, a towel slung over one shoulder, I bite my lip, shifting from the heat coursing through my body. He mistakes my movements for being cold and wet, and immediately begins patting my face and hair before rubbing the cotton fabric over my arms.
He hunches down in front of me. “Lift your foot.”
Instead, I give him a coy smile, my hands moving to the hem of my shirt. I peel it over my head, dropping it to the floor.
He stills, the towel clutched in his hands. His voice is ragged. “Bri… what are you doing?”
My gaze locks with his, rain dripping from the ends of his dark hair. “I think it’s time.”
He stands. His throat works, his jaw tight. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
I slide my palms over his chest, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath his wet shirt. My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “Heal me, Everett. Make me forget what... he did. I want to feel you. Only you.”
He cups my face, his big hands trembling. “Angel, listen to me. If you change your mind—if you want me to stop—I’ll stop. No hesitation.”
My eyes sting. My lips quiver. “I don’t want you to stop. I want you.”
His breath shudders out of him, relief and hunger twisting together. “Oh, angel. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that.” He kisses my forehead, then my cheek, reverently. “I love you, Brielle. More than anything. More than my own damn life.”
Tears spill down my cheeks, but they’re met with a smile. “I love you too. God, I love you so much.”
The words break us wide open. His mouth crashes against mine, desperate and consuming. He lays me down on the rugby the fire, his body caging mine, but his touch is gentle—worshipful—as he trails kisses along my jaw, my throat.
He strips me slowly, giving me time to stop him, to say no. But I don’t. Instead, I arch into his touch, every nerve lit with need.
When he pulls his own shirt over his head, I trace every line of muscle, every scar, branding him as mine. His jeans are gone next, and I see the evidence of his restraint straining against his boxers. My breath catches.
He lowers again, pressing his forehead to mine. “You sure?”
I cup his face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
His hand slides between us, moving to my pussy. I gasp when he gently touches me, arching toward his hand.
