Page 21 of If You Go
THANK GODfor Richie. Because I was about to make some decisions that I may have regretted in the morning. But one thing’s for damn sure: that man’s body will haunt my dreams tonight, probably every night for the rest of forever. When he was made, angels cried and then immediately passed out. There has to have been songs written about his abs alone. Because there ain’t no way that all of that was an accident.
The man—Brenden, it has to be—locks eyes with me as I slide the door to the actual bathroom shut. His stare is a physical weight, burning into my skin even after the lock clicks. It isn’t until that moment that I remember I actually need to pee really badly. I rush to the toilet, thighs trembling, breath uneven.
When I finish, I pad over to the sink, turning on the water. That’s when I notice the soap dispenser. I can’t help but laugh—it’s shaped like a tiny Harley, all chrome and detail, sitting therelike a knick-knack. These grown ass men who own this place have almost no decorations, but this one soap dispenser. This has to be the cutest thing I have ever seen, and now I want one. I snap a photo with my phone. Tomorrow I’ll wonder why the hell I took a picture of a motorcycle soap pump. But tonight? It feels like a small victory to cling to something so normal.
I dry my hands, straighten my shirt, and step out. The bedroom across the hall is obviously empty now, the door left wide open, and the lights are off. But his scent—clean, dark, masculine—still lingers.
I turn toward the dining room and begin my trek through the empty hallway, but freeze when I enter the large room that holds both the living room and dining room.
Sitting at the table, beer in hand, is Brenden. Shirtless, tattoos coiled across muscle like armor, those glacier-blue eyes tracking me. Not blinking. Not moving. Just watching. His fierce, sky blue eyes scan me from head to toe, and back again, causing me to shiver. His stare feels like fingers tracing my bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
My stomach swoops. Maybe Hazel and June were right. Maybe I should’ve met. No. Bad Surry. Bad vagina. I don’t need a man. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. My rogue vagina needs to sit down and shut the hell up.
I nod, feeling my cheeks heat, and make my way to the living room. Everyone’s lounging around, laughing too loud, movements slow–definitely drunk or at least close to it.
Alisha, drunk and starry-eyed, is draped across Sam. “SURRYYYY!” she shrieks, dragging my name out like a song. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEEEEEN!” She tries to get up off of Sam, but he holds her down. I’m not sure she could walk anywhere at the moment anyway. She was already too drunk about three bottles ago.
“I was in the bathroom, Lishy. Do you need anything?” I continue walking toward her, noticing her face is a bit pale and green. “Water, or maybe a garbage can? Are you ready to go home?”
“She can sleep here in the guest room,” comes the same gravel-deep voice from right behind me. He leaves no room for argument, or at least he thinks he does. The sound vibrates across the base of my skull, and my panties dampen instantly. My pussy is a real, real problem.
I spin around, head tilting back, and back, and back, until I meet his gaze. Holy hell, he’s massive. How did I not notice how much taller he is than me, oh wait, probably because I wasn’t focused on his face to realize how high up it was. There was a much more distracting view directly in front of my eyeballs. But that face. It takes my breath away nearly the same.
“We’re perfectly fine to head home, right guys? I think it’s about tha—”
My words die as Alisha retches.
“She’s fine to take the guest room, Sam,” he repeats, eyes locked on mine, not even bothering to look toward the sound of impending doom for his carpet.
Sam disappears with her down the hall, Corver trailing behind them, holding a waste basket in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He is making some jangling noises, so I assume he has some headache medicine on him. Selene snores softly with her head in Richie’s lap, Hazel next to him with her head on his shoulder, while they both scroll on their phones. June and Josh are nowhere to be seen.
Which leaves me here. Alone.
With him.
“Come with me.”
Not loud. Not a request. A command. His hand finds mine—firm, steady. Not trapping, but leading. And I follow. I knowin my gut that if I said no right now, he wouldn’t make me do anything. But apparently, my rogue vagina is in charge tonight, and I allow him to lead me away from the living room.
He guides me down the hallway, placing my hand around his bicep. My fingers don’t even cover half the muscle. He leads me straight into his bedroom, shuts the door, and pins me gently against it.
"I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were before. I should have guessed.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you to know me,” I answer, how could he have known? He leans in and kisses the shell of my ear, heat rising into my cheeks. When he pulls away his eyes blaze with a fire that screams lust and desire so loudly I can nearly hear it audibly.
He leans down, his stubbled jawline grazing the sensitive hollow where my neck meets my shoulder. His nose traces a path up to the curve of my ear, where he inhales deeply, deliberately. The growl that escapes him is low and primal as he exhales my scent, like distant thunder trapped in his chest. It reverberates through my skin, sending electric currents down my spine, causing my already damp underwear to completely saturate. I’m shocked they haven’t begun to weigh me down due to the moisture coming from my pussy. The heady, musky scent of my arousal mingles with his cologne, creating an intoxicating perfume that seems to thicken the air around us.
“Your smell will live in my dreams from now until the day I die. I never want to be able to smell anything but you in here, ever. Stay the night with me.”
How the hell do you argue with that? I mean, I can blame it on the alcohol right? The sugar from the soda and juice? But also, do I really need an excuse? I deserve to feel good for a minute, and I am pretty sure he can do just that.
I slide one arm through the fabric of the tank top, then the other, never breaking our shared gaze. The cotton whispers against my skin as I pull it over my head, revealing inch by inch the bare flesh concealed beneath. His jaw slackens, his full lips parting with a sharp intake of breath. I stand before him, vulnerable yet powerful as the discarded garment pools like spilled ink at my feet. My eyes travel deliberately from his flushed face down the taut lines of his body, lingering on the visible evidence of his desire, before the ache building inside me becomes impossible to contain.
“Fuck it,” I whisper, reaching up and yanking him down by his biceps, and crash my mouth against his.
His lips freeze for a heartbeat before his arms wrap around me, pulling me impossibly close to him. His hands glide down my body and cup my ass, lifting me up, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist. He never takes his mouth off mine, and our tongues begin to get acquainted with one another, tasting each other, creating a dance that is only for us in this moment.
I run my fingers up from his biceps to his shoulders, exploring each muscle as I go, eventually making my way to his neck. They continue their journey with my left hand crawling up and tangling in his thick hair, and my right hand goes to explore his jaw line, mingling with the short beard he keeps there. The hair, both on his face and head, are soft and smell sweet and sharp like citrus, and the woods outside my home growing up. The smell makes every nerve in me more alive.
