Page 10 of Dirty Little Vow

His hands come down on my thighs and then he’s driving into me. God, yes. More. Deeper. It’s like he can hear what I’m saying in my head and it’s a whirlwind of just wild, hot, body-to-body sensations until he’s quaking, and I’m trembling again. Moments later, my legs are down with his body pressed to mine, and his hands framing my face.

“I love you, Bella.” He buries his face in my neck and says, “Don’t give up on me.”

I catch his hair in my fingers and pull his gaze to mine. “Give up on you? Why would I ever give up on you?”

His lips press together, and he rolls to his back, staring up at the ceiling. “My first reaction to trouble is to pull back.”

I lay there and digest those words. “Why?”

He looks over at me. “Because I don’t know what else to do, and it’s not a familiar or comfortable feeling.”

This answer twists me in knots. I sit up and stare down at him. “I can’t be in this relationship if your answer when things get hard is to split us up. Commitment isn’t easy for me. I saw what it did to my father, losing my mother. I’m scared enough.” I try to move away, and he pulls me down with him, on my side, and him on his, facing me, his leg draping over mine.

“You’re reading me wrong. I’m afraid of losing you forever, Bella. I’m afraid of you getting hurt. I can’t lose you.” His words are ripped from deep inside and etched in torment. “I can’t lose you,” he adds.

Realization and acceptance slide over me, and my hand goes to his face. He’s trying to control anything he can to protect me. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not short-term. Not ever. We do this together, wherever your father’s will leads us. And then we live happily ever after.”

“Do you think that ever happens?”

“My parents—”

“Your mother—”

“It’s like the Luke Combs’ song my father told me just recently reminds him of my mother.Even if I knew the day we met you'd be the reason this heart breaks. Oh, I'd love you anyway.If he’d have known he’d lose her one day, he’d still have done it anyway. Nothing is for sure, Tyler. I said I’d never take the risk, but I am willing now, for you. Are you for me?”

“Every moment of my life, Bella.”

“Then no matter what happens, we have each other.”

Sometime later, we’re under the blankets with me resting on his chest, and I can hear him thinking. He still can’t rest. He’s still not okay. And that means we’re still not okay. I snuggle in closer to him and vow to hold on tighter, as tight as I have to, to get us to the other side of the hell his father has forced on him all his life.

Chapter Eight

Bella

I wake the next morning to a slice of light through the window, and Molly whining for a potty break. Tyler is also wrapped around me, unmoving and holding me so tightly, I can’t get up. “Tyler,” I murmur. “Tyler, the puppy.” I try to move, but he’s not having it.

He groans and says, “I got her,” and then he’s gone, rolling away from me and climbing out of bed. I twist around to watch him pull on his pajama bottoms and then kneel down to love on the puppy.

A moment later, the two are gone, leaving me with a warm sensation in my chest and a twist in my belly. He’d be a good father, but no one would ever convince him of such a thing. He believes he’s his father’s son, and therefore destined to be a monster. It’s why last night happened. He’s too easily convinced I’m better off without him, and I feel like there is nothing but time that will show him otherwise. We just need this mess with the will to end.

And I’d go to the courthouse and marry him today, and do so in a heartbeat if I could, just to end this mess with his inheritance now. I don’t need a big wedding or drawn-out engagement. But what either of us wants doesn’t matter. His father made sure to drag this process out with a forced extended engagement that can’t even be our own choice. And I’m not surprised one bit. He ensured lots of time for Tyler to feel unstable and unsettled.

I toss away the blanket, walk into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and throw on some shorts and a tank, before donning my fluffy slippers. Tyler still isn’t back when I’m done, and I seek him out, locating him in the kitchen where he’s busy making the coffee I was about to make myself. At present, he’s filling the carafe with water, his shoulders bunching, flexing as he does, and aside from the fact that the man looks good—he always looks good—that tension is a sign his stress is not gone.

“I got it,” I say quickly, before he can add the grounds. “I bought some new coffee I want to make.”

He turns off the water. “I can do it. Where is it?”

“I know you have to be in early today. Go shower. I’ll bring you a cup.”

He places the carafe on the coffee maker and pulls me to him before kissing my temple. “I’ll start by brushing my teeth and then kiss you properly.”

“You did plenty of that last night.”

“About last night…”

“It’s over. Go. Get ready.”

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