My clit throbs as I calculate the million problems that come to light if I do what my heart is screaming at me to do. I try to focus on the issues at hand, hoping my brain latches onto one long enough to talk some sense into me, but the power of his touch is too much, and soon, the sound of his voice drowns out the fear.
“Say it, baby. I need to hear it. Tell me you need me.” His massive hand palms over my pussy, and he presses forward with pressure as he kisses my nipples, suckling my breasts. He’s so big, and I want him so badly.
Massaging through my soaked panties, he rubs my clit and groans, “I’ve missed the thick lips of this pussy.”
I swallow hard, and drag in a staggered breath as he presses me against the porch railing. Drops of warm rain trickle down my back as he kisses me harder and harder, his fingertips rolling over my nipples.
“Say it, or I’ll put you in the truck and never bring you back again. You’ll be my little prisoner, all tied up and safe. I’ll know right where you are.”
Why do I like the sound of being his prisoner?Heat spreads through my body, and I feel like I’m being lit from the inside out as my eye catches a glimpse of the book I wrote four years ago sitting on the table next to the rocking chair.
I squint my eyes and look again, sure that my mind is playing tricks on me, but it’s not. The book is there and there’s a paper clip holding a page.
My heart drops and my stomach tightens as I back away from Brooks. “What’s that? Where did you get that?”
“Get what?” He turns toward me, still reaching out as though he’s seriously going to play dumb.
“The book. Where did you get that book?”
“In the pantry. It was tucked behind the flour I pulled out for dinner.”
“You don’t need to pull flour out for dinner, Brooks.” I forgot I stashed the book there shortly after I got home. I’d left a copy here that my mom put up on the shelf, and I couldn’t look at it anymore. I only had one copy printed for a reason. I hid it under my bed before I moved to California. I never thought she’d come across it. The day I was frustrated, the pantry seemed like the right place to shove it. Of course, I wasn’t expecting Brooks to be in my mother’s house making dinner. I wasn’t even expecting my mother to make dinner becauseI’vebeen making dinner, andI’vebeen making dinner just fine without flour.
“You wrote our book, Kelsi. We should talk about that.”
My face turns dark red and I’m pretty sure I’m having a stroke of my own. “It’s notourbook. It’s just a book.”
“A book with my name as the main character. It’s good, really fuckin’ good, and it’s our story.”
“It’s not our story.” I look away, avoiding eye contact in favor of the knots in the pine floor. “It’s just a book.”
One hand lands on my shoulder and the other under my chin, redirecting my gaze toward his. “It’s far from ‘just a book.’I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to read it, but I’m so glad I saw it. You should be writing for yourself, baby. Not rewriting someone else’s work for some Hollywood script.”
I hate being reminded that I’m rewriting someone else’s script, and I don’t remember telling him directly, so I assume he’s done independent research on me, which is both invasive and annoying.
“That book was the last time I felt anything real, Brooks. I’m not that girl anymore.” Tears stream down my face in quick succession. “How the hell am I supposed to write real things when I’m not feeling anything real anymore? I’m… I’m alone. I’m so fucking lonely. I’m in rooms full of people and I’m alone. But that job, the one you keep shitting all over, is all I have! That book I wrote is trash! It won’t sell. Do you know how many books an author has to write to be relevant?Hundreds.I’m not that talented. I need to take what I can get, and what I got is pretty damn good. I’m writing a script for Johnny Nicholson. Did I mention that?”
The rough pads of his fingertips brush across my cheek, wicking away the tears as they fall. “I’m sorry it sounds like I’m shittin’ on your job. I’m tryin’ to tell you that you should want more for yourself.” There’s urgency in his voice as he says, “Stay here, baby, with me. Let me take care of you. Let me do thethings we should’ve done to begin with. You’ll never be alone again.”
“Then what? I stay home and raise twelve babies while you go off to work? I don’t want that. I like having a career. I like—”
“Write. Write what you feel.” He nods toward the book on the table. “I want to hear your stories. I know you have so many of them to tell. Remember that notebook you used to keep? You carried it everywhere, and you’d jot things down that made you think of characters or book ideas. You still have that?”
I sigh and stare up into his dark brown eyes. I want to hate him. I really want to hate him. I want to hate him and run back to California. “Stop.”
“Stop what?” He holds me in place as though he owns me.
“Stop acting like this is going to work. It’s not. We’re two different people going in different directions. I wrote that book four years ago. It was therapy. A way to get over you.”
“Or a way to keep this alive.”
“If that were the case, I’d have kept writing about you. I didn’t. I wrote one book and stuffed it away in the back of a pantry because I couldn’t stand looking at it.”
He holds steady, his hand on my face. “Why are you fightin’ this? You just said you’re lonely in California. We both know you’d be happier writin’ for yourself up here in the mountains. We both know you still love me. We both know everything you want is right here, so let’s stop all the bullshit.”
He leans into my ear and whispers low and graveled, warm heat spreading down the left side of my body, “You’ve always belonged to me. Whether you were in California, or right here beside me, you were mine. I can’t be away from you again. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. If you love this job, I’ll move to California. I’ll do whatever it takes, but I’m not lettin’ you go again.”
There’s this thing that’s always happened with me. When someone asks if I want chocolate or strawberry, I can’t decide. But if someone tells me I’m taking chocolate, I’ll know right away that I want strawberry. And right now, with Brooks telling me he’d go to California, I know I belong in Rugged Mountain with this giant, writing a book of my own, about a love I know I can’t let go of.
