Page 82 of Little Bird
“Never leave me again,” I counter. “Promise. Promise me, girl.”
“Never,” she agrees.
I slam into her again. “No more midnight trips to town without me.”
I can hear the smile when she answers, though her voice is faint. “Can I go to town at midnight if I take you with me?”
I hammer her again once, twice, before I answer, and though I think that should be answer enough, I take her earlobe in my teeth and mutter, “You wake me up next time and ask, and I’ll tell you whether we’re going to town or staying here so I can fuck you.”
It may be the dirtiest thing I’ve ever said in my life, and the fact that I’m saying it to my stepsister makes it even worse, but I’m out of my mind with lust at this point. My balls are hot and tight against my body, and my orgasm is racing down my spine and through my pelvis, and I can hardly control myself.
I want this girl’s promise that she’s mine for the rest of her life.
And it’s the one thing I know I probably can’t ask for.
“I’ll never leave you, Gabe,” she whispers into my ear. “I promise.”
It’s so unexpected, so sweet, so perfect, that it undoes me completely, and I’m coming before I register that it’s going to happen. I lean down and bury my face in her neck to keep myself quiet and she wraps her legs around me and pulls me deeper into her, her own orgasm squeezing me like her body will never let me go.
And God, I hope that’s the truth.
Because I don’t know what will happen to me if she leaves again.
Gunner
I spin the bracelet on my wrist over and over, hoping it’ll get my brain to start fucking working.
Although what I’m really doing is thinking about the girl who gave me this bracelet as a Christmas present, so many years ago. And the marketing plan she left in my shop at some point, complete with bullet points and predictions for how well each one would work. I’ve been through it so many times now that I practically have it memorized, and I still can’t believe how good it is. Influencers. Social media campaigns. Photographs of me and Gabe. Extensive background stories about how each piece came to be. Personal orders. Publicity campaigns.
The girl did such a thorough job that I started wondering in the middle of the night last night where she found the time. I haven’t been around as much as I could have, but Gabe has been with her nearly every day, and surely he’s been keeping her busy. When did she manage to sit down and write all of that out? Make plans for a business she doesn’t even know to try to help it succeed?
My fingers catch on the charm she put on this bracelet when she was young–—an axe attached to a tree–—and I find myself grinning. At the time, she thought I was a hero. A man who went into the forest and chopped down trees, like Paul Bunyan, to protect the town. Her eyes had shone with excitement when I opened her gift, and she’d shrieked when I put it on like she’d never been more excited.
I promised her then that I’d never take it off, and I’ve held to that promise. Even after she and Helen left.
And now I’m grinning like an idiot at the forest below me, and quickly wipe the smile off my face. Gods, what’s happening to me? I’m sitting up here on the ridge to watch the sunrise, the same as any other day, and instead of going through ideas for the business, which is the reason I came up here, I’m remembering Taryn giving me a Christmas present and grinning like an absolute fool at the view below me.
If anyone came up here and saw me, they’d think I lost my mind.
A twig cracks and I whirl around, afraid that someone has done just that, and see Taryn coming up the path like my thoughts fucking summoned her. Her hair is tangled and her cheeks flushed, and I’m guessing she hasn’t been awake very long. She’s not wearing any makeup at all.
She is, however, wearing one of my jackets.
And I don’t think she’s ever looked more beautiful.
She gives me a wry little grin and holds up two thermoses and a foil-wrapped package. “They’re not fresh this morning. I didn’t have time to bake. Too busy sleeping.”
Her cheeks grow pinker at that, and I finally take a moment to actually look at her. When she first arrived, she was gaunt and pale, shadows under her eyes and a pinched look to her face that told me she’d been running from something. Now, though, she looks healthy. Flushed, like the blood in her veins is actually running, and glowing like she’s just had the best news possible. She’s beautiful and vital and smiling like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
When she looks at me, though, I see that her eyes still hold the shadows of fear.
I pat the log next to me, wondering what she’s so afraid of, and she sits and hands me the foil package and one of the thermoses.
“Your favorite,” she murmurs.
I laugh. “Then they’re better when they’ve been out for a day,” I tell her. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since anyone made cookies for me.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Probably because neither you or Gabe knows how to bake.”
