Page 70 of A Vintage of Regret
Her second climax built gradually, each pass of his hips fanning the heat higher until it broke over her like a cork popping from a champagne bottle, pulling a soft cry from her as she tightened around him. He followed soon after, a low groan against her skin as his body shuddered, and then he stilled, holding her as if she might vanish if he relaxed his arms.
They stayed wrapped in the sheets, her head pillowed on his chest, the steady thump of his heart lulling her into a kind of calm she hadn’t felt in years. Outside, a breeze rattled thebranches, and the faint sound of crickets seeped through the open window.
Bryson’s fingers moved idly in her hair, combing through the strands with a touch so absentminded it felt unconscious—like he couldn’t not touch her.
“You used to always do that,” she murmured against his chest.
“Do what?”
“Run your fingers through my hair after…” She shrugged. “Back then, I figured you were doing it because you thought you had to do something. Like it was the grown-up thing to do.”
His lips curved faintly. “I’ve always loved your hair. The way it feels against my fingertips. But I never did it out of some weird male obligation after sex cuddle thing. I enjoy this part, too.”
Something in her chest tightened at that—at the ease with which he said it and the fact that it was true.
“I used to lie awake after,” she admitted, voice soft. “Not because I couldn’t sleep. Because I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to miss any of it.”
His hand stilled briefly, and then he tilted his head so he could meet her gaze. The amber light caught the edges of his eyes, making them burn just a little. “I didn’t want to miss it either. But I was too damn young and too damn stubborn to admit that out loud.”
She gave him a small, crooked smile. “Guess we were both stubborn.”
“Still are,” he said. “Difference is, I’m not interested in letting my stubbornness get in the way this time.”
She shifted. “I want this. I want you. I want us.” She swallowed, staring at him, unsure of what to say. Or how to say it. She let her palm rest over the slow rise and fall of his chest. She could feel every beat, every breath. She knew what he meant—what he wanted—but there was a weight pressing against herribs. Not fear exactly. More like a fragile kind of hope she wasn’t ready to drop in the middle of the floor, just yet.
“Bryson…”
“Hmm?” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.
“I do love you. I never really stopped.” She swallowed, her voice catching slightly. “At first, I didn’t think I’d last five minutes in Stone Bridge. But it’s gotten easier, and I want to be here. I want to forge a relationship with my nieces and nephews. I don’t want to miss out. But we’ve been apart for twelve years. But loving you now isn’t the same. I’ve changed and so have you. We don’t know each other the same way, and we can’t simply be the couple we once were.”
“I know that.” He kissed her nose. “All I’m asking for is a shot at a second chance. I want to go for walks. Dinners. Spend time with you.”
“I want that too.” She pressed her lips against his chest. “And you should know, I asked Mateo to ship the rest of my things. I do plan on staying. I just can’t promise you forever. I can only promise you that I want to see where this goes.”
He held her gaze for a long time, then dipped his head, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. “That’s enough for me.”
They lay like that for a while, listening to the low hum of the night and the faint creak of the old house settling. Her breathing synced with his without her even trying, the rhythm grounding her in a way that made her chest ache.
And for the first time since she’d set foot back in Stone Bridge, she let herself imagine a future here—one with him in it.
Fourteen
The Stone Bridge Cafe buzzed with the usual Friday afternoon energy, but the table by the front window felt like an island of tension in the midst of cheerful chaos. Bryson nursed his third cup of coffee, watching the police station across the street through the large plate-glass windows, waiting for some sign that Grant's questioning was finished.
Riley sat beside him, her arms folded tight, gaze fixed on the building across Main Street as though sheer focus might make her brother emerge faster. The set of her jaw told him she was one heartbeat away from marching over there and demanding to know every detail of this case.
"Just breathe," he murmured, resting his hand on her knee.
"I hate this waiting," she said, not taking her eyes off the station. "Not knowing what they're asking him, what he's saying."
"Harlan's with him. Grant's smart enough to follow his lawyer's advice."
Erin sat across from them, picking at the slice of pie she'd ordered but barely touched, while Kelly twisted the strap of her purse until the leather creaked. Her eyes kept darting toward the clock, toward the window, toward nothing at all.
"The kids are okay at your parents' place?" Kelly asked for the third time in an hour.
"They're having the time of their lives," Bryson assured her. "Mom's probably spoiling them rotten, and Dad's letting them 'help' with the afternoon chores. They're better off than any of us right now."
