Matched, p.16
Matched, page 16
He’d made a good life since those days. Wasn’t right to hold a grudge against her. She’d been nothing but hospitable and nice, hadn’t made him any promises, hadn’t hinted that she would.
If he liked her, it was his problem.
Not hers.
She tilted her head at him, still stroking Wrigley between the ears, thoughts of her fingers stroking Will instead popping into his mind and stirring his blood.
“Why Billy Brenton?” she asked.
Good question, that. Took him back more than a decade, and he almost smiled. “Hadn’t been on a stage in a while when Mikey and me got our first gig in Nashville.” It was half the truth, anyway. No sense telling her how many months it took him to not hear the snickers and gasps of the crowd in that tavern, to not hear her saying “We’re not supposed to be together. We won’t make it. I know these things,” every time he and Vera stood in front of an audience. “Felt easier, performing behind another name, being somebody else for a while. The guy who did the booking at the club kept calling me Billy, so I went with it. Gave him my middle name instead of my last name. How it’s been ever since.”
A faint line appeared between her brows, like maybe she knew there was more to the story.
“How’d your parents take you becoming a divorce lawyer?” he asked before she could press it further.
The line smoothed out, and a humorless smile teased her lips. “Not well.”
“That good or bad?”
“I didn’t do it to rebel. I did it to be normal.” She picked at a loose thread in her afghan. “I know I’m not normal,” she added quietly. “But this is as close as I can come.”
Will could appreciate that. Probably not the way she meant it—most days, he was amazed in a good way over how not-normal his life was—but he had his moments of wanting normal.
Of wanting what she’d given him since he moved into her house five days ago.
“I repaid them for their contributions to my education.” Her fingers stilled in Wrigley’s fur. “I don’t apologize for what I do. I don’t judge The Aisle people for making money off doomed couples. I buy a bachelor in the Christmas auction every year. I help my family’s boutique sponsor contestants in the Miss Junior Bridesmaid and the Miss Flower Girl pageants. The people who can accept me do so, and the rest of them—well, that’s their problem.”
Will swallowed. That part about her buying a bachelor didn’t sit so good.
She burrowed her feet deeper under his leg. Her squirmy toes tickled, but in all the right ways.
“We didn’t know each other well then, either, did we?” She said it softly, but those pretty eyes of hers were serious and steadfast.
He’d been an open book. He’d told her about his job, his friends and his passion for music. He’d told her about Aunt Jessie and Sacha, about his momma dying, about Mari Belle being the best and the worst sister in the world. He hadn’t mentioned his daddy being in prison, but then, Lindsey had been a lady. No need to sully her ears with that.
Lindsey, though—she was right. He hadn’t known her. He’d known she had secrets, and he hadn’t pushed. Probably should have. But she’d done things for him that week. She’d believed in him. She’d encouraged him. She’d made him believe in himself despite Mari Belle and Aunt Jessie and near about everyone else in his life not taking his music seriously.
Even knowing Lindsey had secrets, though, he didn’t care. Because most of that week, he’d seen a girl with a big heart, big smarts and a big dream. A girl with courage and determination on a level he’d never knew existed.
A girl who’d inspired his own courage and determination. If you want something, go for it. No one else cares if you reach your dream. Believe in yourself and don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do it.
He caught himself reaching for Vera’s strap. “I knew enough.” He tapped his chest, right where his heart had started hammering. “This here? It’s pretty reliable. Don’t matter why people are who they are. Matters that they are. And you—” He had to swallow, because stripping naked and taking himself out in the snowy front yard would’ve left him less exposed than what he was about to say. “You were what I needed.”
Her toes had quit tickling his leg, but the raw, wary, warning tilt to her mouth and lips hit him somewhere she couldn’t physically touch.
Don’t get close, it said.
I made the rules, you need to stick to them, it said.
She’s right, you’re an idiot, his brain agreed.
He leaned closer to her, brushed a lock of hair off her cheek, then let his fingers explore the silky strands, the curve of her ear, the soft skin on her neck.
“Will—”
“Be a long three weeks if I can’t say thanks for the inspiration.”
She stayed stiff as a statue, but he held her gaze, let his fingers drift into her hair to massage her scalp. Finally, her breath came out on a soft sigh, and her lashes lowered. In that hollow spot in her neck her pulse was still fluttering faster than hummingbird wings, but the stiff, frosty, unflappable, baby-eating divorce lawyer wasn’t there on the couch with him anymore.
She wasn’t the girl she’d been—there was something not bright enough, not determined enough, not free enough—nor was she the coldhearted lady he’d wanted to believe she was a week ago.
But she was the lady who made him feel like his life was shifting into place.
He knew it was elusive. Knew it couldn’t last. But he clung to the feeling anyway.
Why don’t you do love? was on the tip of his tongue.
It was the smart question to ask. Any question that kept him from moving his fingers from her hair to her lips was a good question. But he didn’t want to be smart.
He wanted to just be.
With Lindsey.
“If you kiss me and then leave again to go write another twangy song,” she said, eyes closed, lips barely moving, “I swear to God, I will snap that guitar in half and feed it to you for breakfast.”
“You use the prettiest words.”
One lid lifted.
Will grinned at her.
Her lips twitched in the corners then parted. She was smiling at him, a full, open, honest grin that set his ticker beating harder.
“It is utterly unfair,” she said, shooing Wrigley away and tossing aside her blanket, “that your country boy smile isn’t illegal.” She pulled her feet from beneath him, but then she swung a leg over him and straddled his lap, still smiling at him while she took his cheeks in her hands and pressed a soft, open-lipped kiss to his mouth.
Will’s pulse kicked up the tempo. He gripped her hips and pushed against her, parted his lips to make way for her tongue. Music exploded inside him. Electric guitars, keyboard, fiddle, bongos. No words, just the white-hot melody of their bodies.
The intoxicating scent of her shampoo tickled his nose, but the intrigued woman scent was stronger—heady and spicy and everything.
He wanted her.
He wanted her fast and hard, then slow and leisurely, all night long. In his bed. Against the wall. In the shower. Everywhere.
Not to keep the music talking. But because he wanted her.
Right here.
Now.
He slid his hands under her sweater. She moaned into his mouth and arched into his touch, and what little blood Will had in his brain surged to his groin.
All thought disappeared, save one word—mine.
He stroked the curve of her spine, pushed her shirt up, feasting on her lips, tasting sunshine and peaches and heaven in her hot mouth. Her hands were on his ears and in his hair, and god, there was too much fabric between their bodies.
She wriggled against him, and he damn near exploded.
The hallelujah chorus had nothing on the tunes she was sparking all over his body.
She broke the kiss, arched back and tossed her sweater aside.
Will’s mouth went dry, just as it had earlier.
One cup of her black bra was adorned with a winking, red devil-horned smiley face.
He traced the edge of the satin with fingers that weren’t as steady as he would’ve liked, then dipped his fingers under her jeans. “Like that you match under here.”
She ran her hands under his shirt, over his chest, her cool touch igniting shivers over his skin. “Is this a ploy to get another song out of me?” she asked.
“It’s a ploy to get you out of your pants.”
“And what, exactly, are you planning on doing once you get me out of my pants?”
Will felt his lips curving up again. “Darlin’, you leave the details to me.”
“I assume those details involve my satisfaction?” Her smoky voice drifted over his skin and seeped into his bones.
“Twice over,” he said.
Her eyes were dark as night, her shoulders trembled, but she leaned in and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth while her fingers traced his nipples. “Now?” she murmured.
“Now,” he agreed.
She slid off his lap, quirked a take your clothes off eyebrow, then shimmied out of her jeans.
And Will had thought his mouth was dry a minute ago.
“Get moving, cowboy,” she said, fisting her hands on the red ties at the sides of her hips. His gaze snagged on the smiley face tattoo on her left hip, then on the winking smiley at the triangle of black fabric between her legs.
He had to swallow twice to find words.
Fifteen years. He’d been all over the world, had his pick of women, played to bikini-clad crowds on beaches, and this woman—softer and curvier than she’d been at nineteen, less perfect, more perfect—this woman stole his breath, stole his words, stole his soul.
Every time.
She snapped a finger. “C’mon. Strip.” But her lips were tilted up, and there was warmth, if not outright affection, glowing in her expression. “You need a hand?”
Lord almighty, she was fixin’ to kill him.
He nodded.
She laughed. A beautiful, amused, sexy, I’d love to rid you of your pants laugh. “Been a while?” she murmured while her hands went to his belt and those glorious breasts hung right at eye level.
He nodded again.
“That won’t get you a pass on good performance,” she whispered. She nipped at his ear and unbuttoned his jeans, and she could’ve said near about anything she wanted, and he still would’ve caught her face in his hands and kissed those lips.
She wasn’t shy about kissing. Not hesitant, not coy. He fumbled for the condom in his pocket, then lifted his hips so she could shove his pants down—all the while kissing her, with her kissing him right back. Cool air touched his legs, then, with his pants stuck around his ankles, she climbed on, kissing and stroking and rubbing him.
They’d been fast and hard and uncoordinated at nineteen.
Now, he wanted to thrust into her, but he wanted to kiss her forever. See where else her hands would go, feel the weight of her breasts in his palms, enjoy the heavy throb of anticipation in his groin. He pulled her closer, their tongues tangling, and he unhooked her bra with one hand. She moaned into his mouth and kissed him deeper.
He would’ve let her do anything right then.
Because he’d never kissed another woman who put so much enthusiasm into being with him.
Not Billy. Will.
She rocked against his erection, and a flood of sensations crashed over his skin. “Lindsey,” he gasped.
She untied the strings on her panties.
“Sweet Christ Almighty,” Will whispered.
She took the condom from him, and with nimble fingers, opened it and rolled it down him.
Her hands, her fingers, her touch, her kiss, her body—she was everything.
He near about lost himself when she slid over him, taking him inside her, tight and hot and perfect around him.
She felt so right. Natural. Like she was born to ride him. Like it hadn’t been fifteen years. Like she’d never left him.
“Lindsey…”
“Will,” she whispered, bucking over him, eyes dark and intense on him. Her breathing was ragged, cheeks flushed and bright, lips swollen.
Beautiful.
His. His like no one else would ever be. Like no one else ever could be.
She flung her head back, riding him harder. “Lindsey,” he said again.
She closed her eyes.
Closed them against him, closed him out. A moment later, she arched her back and cried out, and his body reacted instinctively, joining her physically even though his heart was having performance anxiety.
She was his, but she wasn’t.
I don’t do love, she’d said.
But with her, he didn’t know any other way. Even when he wanted to protect himself, he knew.
She was the only one who made him hear music. The only one who made him feel home. The only one who wanted nothing more than for him to be plain, simple Will Truitt.
He’d had four hours of his three weeks, and already, he knew three weeks wouldn’t be enough.
Not by a long shot.
Her limbs seemed to melt, and he used his last ounce of energy to roll them so she was beneath him on the couch.
Because she was his.
Question was, this time, how long could he keep her?
LINDSEY DIDN’T retreat to her bedroom. No, a retreat would’ve been cowardly. Instead, she lay with Will, enjoying his weight and their soft smart-ass getting-to-know-you-again volleys until she lost feeling in her legs. When she shifted, he gave her his best adorable, irresistible country boy grin, then shoved off her. “Now can I go write a song?”
“Another one? Your stamina is amazing.”
He snagged her hand and dropped a kiss to her knuckles while his gaze took a slow meander over her naked body. “Ain’t seen nothin’ yet, lawyer lady.” He nodded toward the sunroom, a subtle invitation to join him.
He’d played for her fifteen years ago too, when he was a simple janitor who liked to goof off with a guitar. And she’d liked listening to him.
Too much, in fact. She could claim she hated country music all she wanted, but Will—his guitar, his voice, his songs—he was the music in her life.
“Try to keep it down,” she said. “I have to be in top baby-eating form this week.”
The warm specks flickered out of his eyes. He tugged his pants on, then snagged his shirt off the ground. “Extra twang, coming up.” Despite the subtle shift in his expression, he sounded cheerful and unaffected by her rejection, perfectly happy to have been sexed up then turned down for anything more intimate.
Exactly how she liked her relationships.
But a relationship with Will was more complicated.
He turned away, giving her a beautiful view of the curve of his back, the muscles in his arms and the smiley face tattoo on his left shoulder blade.
He’d kept it.
All these years, he’d kept his matching mark.
He pulled his white T-shirt on, and her heart gave a pained thump.
She smelled a thunderstorm brewing and felt light as a happy spring morning.
In fifteen years, no man had made her feel like Will did. Appreciated. Accepted. Adored.
And in three weeks, she would say good-bye to him again. For good.
Chapter Thirteen
MONDAY MORNING, Lindsey awoke alone. Will was passed out on Noah’s bed across the hall, and while she was disappointed he hadn’t snuck into her room for a late night romp in the sheets, she was also relieved.
Boundaries were good.
She worked past dark Monday night and got home to a note that Will had gone out to Suckers, and to call if she wanted him to bring anything home for her.
She didn’t. She had a craving for cheese fries, but she shared some chicken with Wrigley instead and had a salad on the side, then texted Will a short message: Long day. Another tomorrow. Drive safe.
He was asleep in Noah’s bed again, breathing heavy but not snoring, when she crept out of the house Tuesday morning. When she got home, he was in the kitchen, cheerfully whistling to himself and making pan-fried steak. They had a cozy dinner as he told more stories about life in country music, which she countered with stories about Noah and Kimmie, who were honestly the two most fascinating people in her life. After dinner, when they bumped into each other while cleaning the kitchen, she pressed a kiss to his scratchy cheek and thanked him for dinner. He gave her a one-armed hug, told her she was welcome¸ and that she looked exhausted and should get some sleep.
He’d spent too much time talking to his management team about endorsements and tour schedule changes today, he said, and he had to work on a song.
No kiss back. No lingering touches. No let’s get naked vibes.
It was as though he were nothing more than a friend.
Which should’ve been a good thing. She liked friends-with-benefits relationships. No emotional entanglements. No expectations. No drama when his three weeks were over.
She had two weeks and four days left with him. So Wednesday night, even though she had three more cases to catch up on and Will had said he had tons of work to do too—it seemed country music superstars worked as hard as divorce lawyers—she shut her computer down and went home.
Will and Wrigley were in the sunroom, the man snoozing in the middle of the couch, his phone sliding out of his hand and his feet propped on the coffee table. Wrigley lifted his nose and sniffed at her. She scratched his ears, and he soaked in the love, panting happily.
Will hadn’t moved. His breathing was deep and rhythmic, slow and steady. Not a snore, but not silent either.
Lindsey stepped out of her shoes. Still, he didn’t move.
But he was here. Comfortable in her house. Unguarded. Peaceful.
Happy?
If he’d been any of her other short-term boyfriends over the years, she wouldn’t have given his happiness more than a passing thought. But she hoped Will was.
Because despite how little she’d been here since Sunday, having him in her home made her happy. Warm summer, bright blue skies, sprinklers-in-the-sun happy. Heart full, not just smiling-panties happy.
It was the most dangerous happy she’d ever had. And here, just the two of them, with Will being Will, she almost trusted her sixth sense.
