I sigh, “Everyone keeps saying the same thing. You know what it makes me wonder?”
“What?”
“Why my belly tells me he’s the one?”
Nicholas’s lips part, and I leave him like that.
Okay, I don’t know this house, but I’m sure those stairs lead to at least three bathrooms. I walk up them, their framed photographs giving me pause. The six brothers growing up through camping trips, school photos, childhood sports events, even one of Jett with boxing gloves, one of Jaxson at what must have been the day he purchased a ranch. There are pictures of Wyatt’s grandparents when they were newly married, black and white smiles, and her holding swaddled boys in frame after frame. I stop at May with her husband, sometime in the 1950’s from their dated attire. She’s laughing in his arms, and he’s leaning in to whisper something that anyone looking at this wishes they could hear.
Is she with him now?
Continuing onward, I’m staring at nothing, the paper envelope a heavy weight in my hand that makes my feet drag.
I stop, and look at it.
Why am I doing this?
I know one thing.
I love this man.
And I don’t need permission.
Folding the envelope four times so it can fit in my pocket, I tuck it away and head back to where I want to be.
By and on his side.
CHAPTER 38
ONE MONTH LATER
DIANA
“Y ou look pleased with yourself,” I smile as Wyatt turns the wheel down an unfamiliar road, his uniform’s sleeve tugging on a thick bicep that inspires lust in me every time I look at it. “Excited to drive me around in your cop car?”
“Without Washington giving me a hard time? Yep.”
“I’ve never done a ride-along.” I correct myself, “Except for when I met you, but that doesn’t really count.”
“That was a ride over you.”
“Har har, Wyatt, har har.”
His laugh is as easy and relaxed as his posture. I usually see him in plain clothes, so I keep checking out his body in this tailored uniform whenever I think he won’t notice. Lord knows the man has a big enough head.
“So, is this your normal route?”
“We don’t have a route. It’s called a beat. Or zone. But no route. That implies same way every day, and that’s never how it is.”
“Hmm,” I nod, eyes dropping from his shiny badge to his thigh as he rests his right hand on it, fabric tight over his large thigh muscle.
“You wet?”
My eyes dart up. “Excuse me?”
His voice is thicker. “I see you checking me out, Diana.”
“I am not!”
“Yeah, right.”
Sighing, I face forward and purse my lips, subconsciously pushing my skirt down. “I wasn’t.”
“Sure.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Yeah, you were. And you’re lucky.”
“To be with someone who won’t have sex with me after three months and change?” I ask and dryly add, “Yeah, real lucky.”
Truth is that I’ve enjoyed these months of getting to know him. But it really is torture not being able to touch his naked body when mine so wants to.
He pulls onto a dirt road off-limits to the public. Gravel spits under his patrol car’s tires as Wyatt navigates pot holes. Trees and overgrown brush on the sides of the road grow dense. Splashes of sunlight become fewer and farther between, the heat of a southern summer day beading sweat on us both. “You’re lucky because you’re about to get lucky.”
My eyes flick to his as he waits for my reaction. “Did you just say I’m about to…”
“You want to fuck?” He turns onto a narrower road, and puts the car in park.
My jaw has lost its elasticity, dropped all the way down to my very interested nipples. “Out here?”
Wyatt pushes a button and his seat slides way back, the bulge in his uniform unmistakable as he removes his belt and lays it on the dash, gun pointed away.
He reaches over, scoops me up with a little help from my desire to make this happen. I settle in, hiking up my skirt, straddling Wyatt’s narrow hips until my panties are against his warm zipper.
Leaning down so that our lips almost touch I tease him, “You couldn’t have chosen a bed?”
He traces my breasts through my blouse, not in a hurry. “I’m going to wait three months to do it missionary? Don’t think so. Look at these. You’re poking through your bra. Nothing can hold you back.”
“Right back atcha.” I lick just inside his lip and sit up to unbutton his shirt. My fingers hesitate. “Wait. No.”
He smirks, “You want the uniform on?”
“Mmmhmm.”
Wyatt’s left hand slides up my chest, over my collarbone and into my hair. He cups my head and roughly kisses me, raising his hips to grind his heat into mine. Tingles zip up my abdomen, my stomach, until goosebumps tighten my nipples more, to painfully hard points.
Our tongues tease as we kiss, lashing and releasing. Wyatt’s hands go under my blouse, my bra, and he holds my naked flesh for a moment before reaching back and unsnapping me to freedom.
Unbuttoning a few, he pulls my blouse open and stares at my naked breasts, the bra still needing to be dragged off of my shoulders. In a moment, the blouse is gone and I’m in his mouth. His tongue is taut, then soft, then taut again as he devours me.
My pussy is humming, breasts sending the message that Wyatt knows what he’s doing. There’s a reverence to this. He’s not performing. It’s a release of inhibitions where he lets his inner animal out of its cage.
His arm wraps around my lower back, holding me on him while he bucks his bulge, licking my breasts, teasing my nipples to ecstatic feelings they’ve never experienced.
I always felt rushed here, before. Like the guys I’d been with thought my breasts were for them to bounce around for a couple seconds, or kiss without realizing I was attached
