Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series Page 7

  “Yeah?” It made me happy to hear it.

  She nodded, her gorgeous lips curving into a smile. “When you spend all your days with a bunch of five and six-year-olds, and all your evenings with a meddlesome mother, you forget how nice it can be to spend time alone with someone closer to your own age.”

  I looked down at our hands. My wedding band peeked through our fingers. “It is nice. I haven’t been out like this in a long time either.”

  “Then we should do it again sometime. And I’ll treat.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I heard myself saying, even though making a habit of having dinner out with her sounded suspiciously like dating.

  But she was right—it was nice to spend time alone with someone your own age. I loved Mariah to the moon and back, and I had the greatest group of guy friends on the fucking planet, but this was different. I’d forgotten how good it could feel to sit across from someone pretty and talk quietly and make her laugh and admire the way the candlelight on the table put those warm, golden flecks in her eyes.

  Except that I knew what she was waiting for, and I couldn’t give it to her.

  * * *

  The snow had continued to fall while we were at dinner, and a couple more inches had accumulated. Cheyenne was delighted, tossing handfuls of it over our heads as we made our way to my car.

  “Are you drunk?” I teased, worried she was going to slip in those high-heeled boots she was wearing.

  “Yes. Which is your fault.” She tipped her head back and opened her mouth to catch snowflakes on her tongue. A second later, she stumbled over an uneven sidewalk slab, and I instinctively reached for her.

  “Jeez, I can’t take you anywhere, Miss Dempsey,” I scolded, holding her by the elbow as we walked down the street.

  She giggled again. “You sound like my students. Did I tell you one of them asked me the other day why I wasn’t called Mrs. Dempsey?”

  “No. What did you say?”

  “I said it was because I’m not married. Then the kid asked why I wasn’t married, and the girl next to him elbowed him and said, ‘You shouldn’t ask her that. It will make her feel old.’ And the kid goes, ‘She is old.’”

  “Little shit,” I said.

  “Oh, it gets better. The girl tried to defend me.”

  “Yeah?” We reached my SUV, and I unlocked the passenger door.

  “Yeah.” She hiccupped before going on. “She said, ‘I know she’s old, but she’s still pretty . . . for an old lady.’”

  I laughed as I opened the door for her. “Get in, Miss Dempsey. Or should I call you Miss Tipsy?”

  She climbed in, but leaned over and poked my chest. “Jerk.”

  Grinning, I walked around to the driver’s side and got in. “Well, she was right,” I said, starting the engine and turning up the heat. “You’re very pretty for an old lady.”

  She batted her lashes at me and hiccupped. “Why, thank you. And you’re quite attractive for an old man.”

  “There are definitely days when I feel like an old man,” I admitted as I started the drive home. “And then there are days I feel exactly like I did at eighteen.”

  “Believe me, I hear you.”

  I drove in silence for a few minutes, one hand rubbing over the stubble on my jaw, wondering what eighteen-year-old me—or even thirty-three-year-old me—would have done with a tipsy, flirty Cheyenne Dempsey on a night like tonight, if my life had taken a different path.

  But immediately I felt guilty for thinking it, so I shut my imagination down. If my life had taken a different path, I wouldn’t have Mariah, and that was unthinkable.

  Still, the woman next to me with the perfect lips and snow melting in her hair was right here right now, and something told me if I leaned over at this red light and kissed her, she’d let me.

  As my SUV came to a stop, I looked over at her and thought about it. She met my eyes and went still.

  But the light changed to green before I could make up my mind, and I focused my attention out the windshield again. Put my foot on the accelerator and left the moment behind.

  We didn’t talk the rest of the way home.

  Out of habit, I pulled into my own garage. “Oh shit,” I said. “I meant to pull in your driveway and forgot.”

  “I can walk,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “The cold air will be good for me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” She got out, and I followed suit, meeting up with her outside on the driveway. The snow still fell in thick, heavy flakes.

  Once more, she tipped her face to the sky, although this time she just smiled. “I really love snow.”

  “I can tell. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  She lowered her chin and opened her eyes. “Cole, you don’t have to.”

  “I know,” I said, taking her arm again, “but the driveway is slippery and I feel responsible for making sure you get home safe since I made you drink that last glass of wine.”

  “That’s true, you did.”

  “See? What kind of monster would I be if I left you to stumble home alone through a foot of snow in the dark?”

  “The worst kind,” she agreed as we turned up the front walk to her house. “An inconsiderate cad.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Instead, as always, you are the perfect gentleman, Officer Mitchell,” she said as we climbed the porch steps. “And I am very grateful.”

  “I don’t know that I’m the perfect gentleman, but—”

  “I do,” she interrupted, turning to face me. “You’ve always been one of the good guys, Cole. It’s just who you are.”

  God, she was beautiful. And warm and sweet and close, and I really just wanted to fucking make out with her right here on the porch. Taste her lips once and for all.

  That’s it. I’m doing it.

  But just as I made up my mind, she placed a hand on my chest, rose up on her toes, and kissed my cheek. “Thanks again for dinner. I had a great time.”

  “No problem.” As the scent from her hair—something lush that reminded me of a summer day—filled my head, I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She pulled her keys from her purse and unlocked the door. After stepping inside, she turned and gave me one last smile. “Goodnight.”

  “‘Night.” I watched her shut the door, listened to the lock click, and exhaled.

  Breathing in gulps of bitter cold air, I walked back home and let myself in the back door. My mother and Mariah had already gone up to bed, but my mom had left a light on for me in the kitchen. I turned it off, made sure the house was locked up, and went upstairs.

  Inside my room, I stripped out of my clothes, alternately glad nothing had happened and cursing myself for not making a move when I had the chance.

  If only, I thought, stretching out beneath the covers in my boxer briefs. If only she wasn’t my best friend’s little sister. If only I didn’t always have to do the right thing. If only she didn’t think I was such a perfect gentleman. If only I knew what was going on in her head. If only I could be sure that she wanted me like I wanted her, with no strings attached, no promises required, maybe I could forget everything else and just make her feel good—make us both feel good—without worrying about the past or the future or anything but right here, right now.

  And I could make her feel good. I knew I could. With my hands and my mouth and my cock.

  My hand was already sliding down my abdomen when I heard my phone pulse with a text, and I realized I must have forgotten to silence it.

  Grabbing it off my nightstand, I checked the screen, half expecting to see a message from God warning me to stop being such a perv and get my mind out of the gutter.

  Instead, I saw a text from Cheyenne.

  Cheyenne: Thank you again for a perfect evening. It was exactly what I needed.

  Me: You’re welcome.

  Cheyenne: Well, I’m already in bed, so goodnight!

  Me: Night.

  For
a few minutes, I lay there with the phone in my hand, picturing her lying in bed, wondering if she ever touched herself and what she thought about when she did. My erection grew even thicker and harder, begging for attention.

  Suddenly my phone pulsed again, and I looked at the screen.

  It was a long message from Cheyenne—and what I saw made my jaw drop.

  Something in me snapped.

  Six

  Cheyenne

  I got ready for bed and slipped beneath the sheets, feeling like my feet still hadn’t touched the ground.

  After all this time, he’d finally invited me to dinner, and I’d ridden alone with him in the front seat of his car, and I’d sat across from him at the most romantic restaurant in town, and I’d held his arm as he walked me home in the snow, just like in a movie. Had we kissed passionately on my front porch at the end of the night? No, but I could leave that for my dreams.

  Still a little tipsy, or maybe just giddy with excitement, I decided to send him a quick text.

  Me: Thank you again for a perfect evening. It was exactly what I needed.

  Cole: You’re welcome.

  Me: Well, I’m already in bed, so goodnight!

  Cole: Night.

  I set my alarm and put my phone on the charger, giving my pillow a fluff before lying back and pulling the covers to my chin. Closing my eyes for a moment, I pictured Cole’s blue eyes and broad shoulders, imagining what it would be like if he were next to me right now. In my head, I heard his deep, sexy voice repeating his words from last night: Your body is fucking perfect, Cheyenne.

  God, what I wouldn’t give to hear it again. This time, I’d say it right back to him.

  Without thinking, I picked up my phone again and started to type a fantasy text like I had last night. Even if I never sent it—and I wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t, I wasn’t that tipsy—it would feel good to pretend I was the girl who would. To see the words on the screen. To imagine what he’d say if he ever read them. It would take the fantasy one step further.

  My fingers moved frantically over the letters.

  I can’t sleep, because I can’t stop thinking about you. This might come as a surprise, but it happens a lot. And it’s been going on for years.

  When I was a teenager, I used to dream about kissing you. Touching you. Feeling your body on mine in the dark. I used to lie awake and picture you in your bed next door, and I’d fantasize about sneaking into your house and up to your room. I’d have let you do anything you wanted to me.

  I still would.

  I could never, ever say these things out loud to you, so I’m hiding behind this text I will never send, but it’s the truth.

  I lie in bed at night and crave you. Your body. Your mouth. Your hands. I fantasize about them on me.

  I fantasize about a lot of things.

  You arrest me. Put me in handcuffs. Force me into the back of your car. Take me somewhere no one could find us.

  You’re angry with me for being bad. You say I need to be punished. You take that baton off your belt and rub it between my legs until I beg you to fuck me.

  You’d take off your—

  And it happened.

  I don’t know how it happened, but it happened.

  I hit send.

  I saw the giant blue block full of white text show up on the screen and gasped. My heart screeched to a halt and then raced ahead. I dropped the phone, covered it with the quilt, and put my hands over my face, screaming internally.

  Could I get it back?

  Even though I knew it wasn’t possible, I frantically dug my phone from the blankets and stared at it, desperately wishing a RETRACT option would appear. Why didn’t they make one of those? Imagine how much better the world would be if we had a chance to take back words we never should have said and never meant to send!

  Oh God, oh God. This couldn’t be happening. A sweat broke out across my neck and back and chest. I kicked my feet under the blankets in a tantrum fueled by regret and humiliation.

  What was I supposed to do now?

  I should apologize, right? Apologize and then beg him to forget he’d ever read those words and make him promise he’d never speak of them again.

  Then I’d move to Montana.

  No, no, that wasn’t far enough.

  Mumbai. That should do it.

  Choking back tears of shame, I typed OMG I AM SO SORRY! PLEASE FORGET YOU EVER—

  But before I finished what I wanted to say, my phone buzzed in my hand.

  Cole: My belt.

  Huh? For a second, I just stared at his text in confusion.

  Then he wrote again.

  Cole: My gun belt. That’s what I’d take off next.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Cole: If I’m in uniform and I had the baton, I must be wearing it.

  My pulse roared like a freight train. My fingers trembled.

  Cole: Keep going.

  I took a deep breath and began to type.

  Me: OMG. You were not supposed to see that.

  Cole: Too late now. Are you going to tell me the rest?

  Me: Do you really want to hear it?

  Cole: Yes.

  Biting my lip, I jumped out of bed, rushed over to my closed bedroom door, and locked it. Climbing back under the covers, I paused, my heart galloping out of control.

  Could I really do this? Did he really want me to? He must, I decided. Because Cole did not play games. He didn’t really flirt or even make dirty jokes. When he said something, he meant it.

  And I might never get this chance again.

  I tapped the blank text box, my fingers poised, my breath coming fast. But I was terrified to dive in. I had to sit next to him at the Thanksgiving dinner table tomorrow!

  Cole: Did you forget where you left off?

  Me: No. I have stage fright.

  Cole: You were begging me to fuck you. What happens after that?

  Okay. Okay. We were doing this.

  I made up my mind right then to just let go.

  Me: You take off your belt. Unzip your pants. You take your cock in your hand.

  Cole: I’m so fucking hard.

  I dropped the phone and fanned my face. Did he mean right now? Or in the story? Either way, my entire body flushed with heat. My nipples grew stiff and tingled with pleasure.

  I picked up the phone again. I’d never sexted anyone before, but I knew this story front to back. I’d imagined every little detail.

  Me: You tease me, stroking yourself and making me watch. I want you inside me.

  Cole: I want your clothes off.

  Me: I’m only wearing a T-shirt and panties. It’s the middle of the night, remember?

  Cole: Take them off.

  I smiled as I typed.

  Me: I can’t. You cuffed me, Officer Mitchell.

  Cole: Take them off. Right now.

  The smile faded from my lips. I’d never heard him be so demanding before. I did what he asked and lay back.

  Me: Now what?

  Cole: Keep going.

  I bit my lip.

  Me: First tell me something. Are you really hard?

  Cole: Yes.

  Me: You’ve got me so hot, Officer. Hot and wet and desperate for you.

  Cole: Spread your legs.

  I did, imagining it was him pushing my knees apart.

  Me: What are you going to do to me?

  Cole: First I’m going to taste you. Then I’m going to fuck you.

  My jaw dropped. This wasn’t the path my fantasy usually took. Somehow Cole was controlling it like a Choose Your Own Adventure book.

  Cole: Put your hand between your legs.

  Me: I won’t be able to type.

  Suddenly, my phone vibrated. He was calling me.

  Oh my God, he was calling me.

  “Hello?” I whispered, pulling the covers over my head.

  “Do what I say.” His voice was so low I could barely hear it.

  “Okay.” Licking my fingers
first, I reached between my thighs.

  “Can you feel my mouth on you?”

  I rubbed my wet fingertips over my clit in soft, slow circles, imagining it was his tongue. “Yes.”

  “I can taste you. I swear, I can fucking taste you.” He sounded different, and not just because he had to be so quiet. There was something in his voice I’d never heard before—an urgency, a quiet intensity that had me burning up from the inside out.

  “Cole,” I whispered, the flames licking higher inside me. “It feels so good.”

  “I want to make you come.”

  “Yes,” I whimpered, unable to believe what I was hearing, unable to stop my hips from rocking beneath my hand to the soundtrack of his heavy, ragged breath in my ear. In no time at all, I was hovering on the brink. “I’m so close.”

  “Me too.” His voice was raw. “God, I want to fuck you.”

  “Do it,” I breathed. “Right now. Don’t stop until you come.”

  For a moment, I heard nothing but low, hushed sounds that turned me on even more as I imagined him struggling, like I was, to stay silent in the throes of an impending orgasm. I pictured him lying in the bed that I’d seen, his long, athletic legs stretched in front of him, his muscular chest bare, his powerful hand fisting his cock, his eyes closed, his thoughts on me.

  I wished he was here. I wished we were alone. I wished I could see him and smell him and hear him and feel him driving into me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I did my best to imagine it, working my fingers expertly over my wet, swollen clit. The blankets above me muffled my strangled sighs.

  “Fuck. Do you want it?” he growled with quiet intensity.

  “Yes, I want it,” I whispered as the tension in me coiled so tight I couldn’t breathe. “I want everything.”

  He exhaled—one final, drawn-out rush right as my own climax hit, and I imagined his cock pulsing inside me as my body tightened rhythmically around him.

  Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygoddddddd.

  I don’t know how much time passed before he spoke.

  “Jesus. I don’t know what to say.” It was his regular voice again. As if something had clicked back into place between us.