18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was closing in on ten o'clock and dark enough that nobody should look twice if they saw Clint and a woman with a hood walking down to the beach.

But, just to be on the safe side, Clint dug out a mask from the pandemic days and offered it to her.

Talia was asleep, and Rocco said he was still on Rio time, so he headed to bed, too.

Even though Clint had no issues with Rocco alone in the house with Talia, after the last couple days and how Talia felt with the lead up to Mother's Day, he asked Jagger to come and hang out at the house just as an extra precaution.

Jagger brought a book—like he always did—and sprawled out on the couch with his glasses on and his bare feet propped on the arm of the sofa, looking very much at home. "You two behave now," he said cheekily, turning the page of his Sci-fi thriller with a flourish. "If you come back with yet another frozen body in your arms, I'm going to start thinking you're the guilty culprit."

Clint did nothing but roll his eyes.

Brooke came down the stairs in the yoga pants she was wearing earlier that day, and one of Clint's oversized gray hoodies. This one said "San Camanez Brewery"" on it, with their company logo. She also wore a ball cap and had her hair tucked into the hole of the hat in a ponytail. Before she hit the landing, she tugged the hood over her head.

"All you need is sunglasses and you'll look like the Unabomber," Jagger said with a chuckle.

"You're too young for that joke," Clint teased back. "Here." He handed Brooke the mask. "Just until we get down to the beach."

Nodding, she removed the hood and looped the elastic straps over her ears, then pulled the fabric avo-cat-o covered mask over her mouth and nose. "This brings back memories I'd have soon forgotten," she said blandly. "The dark ages."

Jagger and Clint both grunted.

The dark ages, indeed.

"Ready?" he asked her.

"If someone recognizes me like this," she pulled the hood back over her head, "then they're definitely the person who tried to kill me."

"I actually think you dressed like that is going to draw more attention to yourself," Jagger said, not moving his eyes from his page. "Just saying."

"You're not helping. Even if she draws attention, nobody will know who she is, and that's what matters."

Jagger merely shrugged, then returned to his book.

Brooke slid into some slip-on runner-style shoes and Clint held the door open for her.

She pulled in a deep breath and exhaled loudly, staring up at the stars. "I shouldn't feel like a caged animal, considering I can go outside, and this is far from a cage, but ..."

"I get it. You're also not free right now. Fear is keeping you confined."

He fell in line with her and reached for her hand. She smiled at him, and he squeezed her fingers as they made their way down the gravel hill.

The pub was closed now, but the staff still hung around. A few vehicles were parked in the parking lot—probably barflies who tried to push their luck and stay past closing because they were locals and knew Clint and his brothers. Sometimes they allowed it, other times, they sent them on their way along with the rest of the patrons.

The back door to the kitchen sat propped open, and the classic sounds of a commercial kitchen filled the air, competing with the music that flowed from the outside speakers on the deck.

Laughter pierced the night.

Clint recognized that laugh well. It was Burke, Wyatt's right hand, in the kitchen. Wyatt was the head chef, he ran the joint and was the master behind the menus, but Burke kept the place operating like a well-oiled machine. He also had no problem playing bad cop and telling the staff to smarten up. A fellow military man—an army ranger—he was no nonsense when on the clock, but he was also fair, and had a great sense of humor, when the work was done.

"That was quite the laugh," Brooke mused as they walked past the entrance to the pub and down around the back, under the stilts that held up the patio.

"That's Burke in the kitchen. He's got a great laugh."

"I get the feeling this is probably a pretty fun place to work."

"We have very little turnover, and over three hundred applications come in in March and April for summer employment. Usually, we get about twenty applications and resumes a month, but this time of the year there are way more. All the college kids want to work somewhere cool for the summer, and the pub has a bit of a reputation for that."

"It helps that the guys who run the place are easy on the eyes, I'm sure." She shoulder-bumped him. It was hard to see her eyes in the twilight, and her mouth was covered by the mask, but he knew her well enough already to know that she was smiling.

"I mean, the oldest guy who runs this place keeps turning down GQ to be on the cover. The other four are just ... you know, meh. Decent looking, I suppose."

She snickered and slightly elbowed him. "Turning down GQ, hmm?"

"I'm too busy."

"Yeah, that's why. I mean, like, what would you call your next beer if you ended up on the cover of GQ, Smooth Criminal?"

"I'm not sure if you're offending my looks or my age to be honest," he said with a deep chuckle that felt as cleansing as the briny sea air drifting up from the water.

They reached the driftwood line, and in every direction the beach appeared empty. Safe enough for Brooke to ditch the mask.

"You can probably come out of hiding, Batman," he said, scanning the water in front of them. It was a calm night, and the gentle lap against the rocks was the only sound, besides the faint music from the patio.

She removed her mask and pulled off the hood. "Ah. That's better."

He pulled off the ball cap, too, allowing her curly blonde locks to tumble free and over her shoulders. "That's better," he echoed, pushing his fingers into her hair and gripping her hard enough to pull her forward. He took her mouth, and she moaned, opening for him and allowing him to deepen the kiss. His grip on her scalp tightened, and she moaned more, which made him smile mid-kiss.

She smiled, too.

His dick twitched at the same time his heart lurched.

Eventually, he released her and broke the kiss. She touched her lips with her fingers, and the ghost of a smile drifted across her partially covered mouth. "Wow."

He glanced down the beach so she couldn't see his cocky, victorious teenager smile.

"Shall we walk?" he asked.

"Sure. Visit the scene of the crime ... or the scene of the near death." She shook her head. "I don't know what to call it. But you can take me to the spot where you found me. A nearly drowned, naked rat."

"Far from a rat," he said with a chuckle.

"Fine. A beached whale."

"I think we're going with a mermaid who finally got her legs, remember?"

"Mermaids are fairy tales. I'm real, and I washed up on your beach like a beluga who swam too far south."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and snickered. "A very pretty beluga whale."

They continued on down the beach, sticking to the tideline, which hugged the shore beneath the overhanging trees.

"I've always liked madrona trees," she said out of the blue. "The twisted branches, the peeling bark and how weathered but also resilient they seem. Getting battered endlessly by the storms, yet persevering and flourishing nevertheless. When I die—for real—I'd like to be buried beneath a madrona tree, I think."

Clint's pulse picked up tempo. He'd had the exact same thought on more than one occasion. They were his favorite trees, too. And he certainly didn't want to take up any more real estate in the afterlife. So why not pay it forward and let his ashes fertilize something that would outlive them all? Something that gives. Like a tree.

"They're my favorite tree, too," he replied, not embellishing anymore than that. "The berries are edible, and I want to make a madrona berry ale one day. But we'll need a lot of berries for that to happen."

"I bet that'd be tasty," she mused.

They walked a little further, then he stopped. "This is the spot."

She wrinkled her nose at him. It was hard to see, but they were close enough that although he couldn't count every freckle on her face, he could still see most of her facial expressions. "How do you know?"

He glanced down at his feet. "Because I came out here to drink, and I left the bottle. See." He picked up the whiskey, which still had about a quarter left. "I forgot to grab it. My arms were kind of full, anyway."

Her lips twitched. "So what? Thirty paces toward the water kind of thing? And then X marks the spot?"

"Give or take. The tide will be a little different. So your rock of salvation may already be under water. Head down to the water line."

Yanking in a deep, fortifying breath, she tossed her shoulders back and almost marched toward the water.

He considered letting her go alone, but after she was about twenty feet in front of him, he decided to join her. Holding on to the bottle so he didn't forget it again.

She reached the edge of the water, navigating the slippery, seaweed-covered rocks with ease. "I barely remember the swim," she said quietly, more to the faraway boats bobbing as no more than spots of light in front of them. "I remember being pushed. Feeling hands on my shoulders. I remember falling and the painful plunge into the icy water. And struggling. Thinking I was going to die. But the swim is a blur. It was like I fell into the water. Kicked out of my dress, then I woke up on your couch."

She turned to face him, her expression stricken and sad. Glancing down at the bottle in his hand, she reached for it. He let her take it. She unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. "Ah. Do you think the theory of it being my dad is too far-fetched?"

"I don't think any theory is too far-fetched at this point," he replied, making sure his tone was even, but also encouraged. "Maybe your aunt—the one who took you and Rocco in—has fallen on hard times, and they came up with a way to get money? Trust me, my head has gone in a million different directions and cooked up a million different scenarios. Your dad being the mastermind behind all of this isn't that far outside the scope of possibility. Particularly if he had help on the outside."

Her head bobbed, and she focused back out on the water for a moment before taking another sip from the bottle. He took it from her and took a healthy sip himself.

"I haven't spoken to my aunt or uncle since I moved out when I turned eighteen. Literally the day after my birthday, I was out of there. And I certainly haven't kept up with their lives or my cousins' lives on social media. They send me friend-requests all the time, try calling and emailing, but I block all of it. They wanted nothing to do with us when we needed help the most—only taking us out of obligation—and now that I have money, they're suddenly eager to be a big, happy family? Not going to happen."

"Healthy boundaries are important." He took another pull off the bottle before she grabbed it from him. "They're not boundaries," she said with a touch of venom. "They're mile-high fences to protect everything I've built. To protect Rocco—the only family I have left."

She finished the bottle, and he took it back from her.

"The last thing my father said to me ..." She lobbed a sarcastic laugh. "Was that this wasn't over and I'd pay for betraying him." Facing Clint, she closed her eyes and shook her head, then pinned her gaze back on him. "I almost forgot about that. It's been so long and nothing has happened until now that I figured he was rotting away in prison and couldn't touch us."

"I wish I could do more to help you. To assist in the investigation. Flush out the person who pushed you. Go rattle your aunt and uncle's cages."

She stepped forward, and he welcomed her, wrapping his arms around her waist while her arms rested on his shoulders. "You've already done so much. I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for you."

His pulse picked up speed again as heat filled his cheeks and chest. He'd known this woman less than a week, and yet he felt like he'd known her for a lifetime. Her sweetness with his daughter, her fire and self-awareness. She was humble and honest. But also, strong and determined. The way she protected herself and her brother ... It said so much about who she was at her core. Hollywood's sweetheart, absolutely. But she was so much more than that. She was a fighter. Resilient against the storms.

They still had no idea of their timeline, or how long she would need to stay in hiding. But now that the police issued the statement to the press that they found "her" body, he knew it was only a matter of time until they caught the killer. Then what?

He wasn't ready to say goodbye to her.

He didn't want to ever say goodbye to her.

"I don't want this to be a temporary thing," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Even in the light of the partial moon, he could see her eyes go wide.

"I know I ran when you brought it up before ... and again, I'm sorry for that. But ... maybe we can figure something out?"

Her smile soothed the sting of trepidation that had been like pinpricks on his heart. He wasn't somebody who played head games, and yet he felt like that was all he'd been doing with Brooke. She made him crazy in the head in the best kind of way.

He hadn't felt like this about anybody in a long time, and he didn't want this feeling to go away. Not for anything. Sure, he was terrified. And there was so much unknown his brain was developing hives, but he was also excited for the first time in a long time. Excited to wake up in bed next to someone. To share his life, home, family and heart with another person.

She nodded. "I don't want this to be a temporary thing, either. But, let's just focus on finding out who tried to kill me, then we'll go from there."

Only slightly deflated at her response, his head bobbed, and he pulled her back against him. She went willingly and rested her cheek on his chest.

He wasn't sure what kind of a response he expected. Which was probably why his heart hurt.

Maybe he hoped for a bit more enthusiasm from her? Or a concrete answer that yeah, she wanted to see where things went with them, too. But he didn't blame her for not throwing her hands in the air and whooping for joy. Especially not after his reaction last time.

Heat crept up his neck. He was still ashamed of his earlier behavior.

She didn't deserve that.

This was all so new to him.

Dating. Sleeping with someone else. Introducing that person to his daughter. This was uncharted territory, and he was at the helm blind and with a broken rudder. None of his brothers had taken the plunge back into the dating world, so he couldn't even go to them for advice.

Thankfully, Brooke didn't seem to want or need to chat. They simply stood there out on the rocks, arms around each other, under the moonlight, staring out at the inky water.

He knew right then and there that he could do this every night for the rest of his life with this woman and never tire of it. Never tire of her.

He'd never had such a clear thought like that with Jacqueline. Never felt so sure or absolute about her or their life together. Maybe because in the back of his mind he knew the island—and possibly even him—weren't what she truly wanted.

They stood there until the water touched the toes of their shoes, letting them know it wasn't going to wait for them to move before it crawled up the rocks. The tide waited for nobody.

Lacing her fingers through his, they turned and headed back up the beach. He had the empty bottle of whiskey in his other hand.

They were nearly at the pub when laughter coming from at least three people made them both freeze.

Where were the people?

Three shadowy figures came traipsing down the beach from the other side, the distinct and pungent scent of cannabis preceding them.

Even though they called it "their beach," it was all actually public land. The beach in front of the pub was public, and anybody could go on it at any time. Not many did, since the parking lot was owned by Clint and his brothers and you had to be a pub patron or cabin guest to park there. But there was side of the road parking down the way a quarter mile down the road, so people parked there.

"Aw shit, it's closed," said one male voice.

"I need nachos," another guy said.

He could see the whites of Brooke's eyes as she stared at Clint in panic. Her hands fished into the pockets of her hoodie frantically. "My mask! I must have dropped it on the beach."

The three men grew closer. They laughed more. One of them had a chuckle that was similar to the hyuck sound that Goofy made.

Tightening his grip on her hand, he pulled her into the treeline so they could hide in the shadows. Then, just to make doubly sure the stoners didn't see them, he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his with a bit more force than he intended. But he was quickly learning that Brooke didn't mind a bit of force. Benign erotic aggression. Some hair pulling, thigh biting, and pulling her hard against his body and claiming her mouth like it belonged to him.

Because he wanted more than anything for that to be true.

She returned the kiss in kind, welcoming his tongue and massaging it with her own.

"Get a room," said one of the guys, which meant Brooke and Clint had been spotted.

"You think they'll like make us nachos to-go or something?" asked another.

"I hear music. Maybe the kitchen is open. I know Burke, the head chef. He buys crabs from my dad."

Ah, so at least one of them was Willy Reilly's son, Cash. He wasn't a bad kid, probably home from college and working on his dad's boat for the summer. Trouble, however, did tend to follow Cash around more than it did others. He seemed to always have a cast on from breaking one bone or another after attempting a dangerous stunt.

Clint turned them so that he was blocking Brooke with his body and nobody would be able to see her face, even if they snuck up right behind them. He let the bottle drop to the small pebbles below and cupped both sides of her head, loving the way her pulse hammered against his little finger as it rested on her throat.

The stoners' footsteps disappeared, as did their laughter. But Clint kept kissing her.

He never wanted to stop kissing her.

"I uh ..." a smile colored her voice, "I think we're safe."

"Not quite," he murmured, kissing her still.

He felt her smile this time.

She responded and opened for him again.

They made out for another couple of minutes before she eventually broke the lip lock. "My tongue is going to get a cramp," she whispered, stepping out of his embrace.

"One thing you never have to worry about with me."

She giggled, and it made his already stiff cock twitch. "Yeah, so far you haven't cramped once."

He took her hand in his, but not before she pulled the hood back up over her head. They made their way, carefully, up around the pub.

The kitchen door to the outside was closed now, and there was only one vehicle left in the parking lot. Probably Burke. He was always the first to arrive and the last to leave.

And it wasn't like Wyatt was a tyrant, forcing the head chef to work from open to close, either. Burke loved his job and was meticulous when it came to cleaning. He was probably in there washing the floor until it was clean enough to eat mashed potatoes off.

"Think it's safe to show me the brewery?" she whispered, looking up at him with hope. "I'd love to see where you go all day and work your hops and barley magic."

He snorted at that, but nodded, pulling her toward the furthest door. You could access the brewery from the kitchen, but usually, that door was locked unless Cooper or Clint were on site. Cooper's motorcycle was gone, so he was home for the night, which meant there was no way Burke could get into the brewery and discover them. Though, if anybody were to discover Brooke, they'd want it to be Burke. He'd absolutely keep her secret.

Clint fished his keys out of his pocket and slid it into the lock.

Brooke kept her head down, but he could tell her senses remained tuned into their surroundings—as were Clint's—in case Cash Reilly and his stoner friends came back.

He opened the door and reached in around the corner to flick on the big fluorescent lights overhead. The place smelled like cleaner and beer. Cooper always mopped the floors right before he left. Brooke stepped in, squinting as her pupils adjusted from the darkness outside to the blinding retinal assault from the tube lights on the vaulted ceiling.

"I wasn't sure what I expected," she said, as Clint closed the door behind her, "but this wasn't it. This feels industrial. Like, this is no mom and pop shop you have here."

He chuckled. "No, ma'am. We're running a real business. It might be a microbrewery, but it's a mighty microbrewery." For some reason that prompted him to flex his muscles, pulling a giggle from her. "We have to adhere to all the regulations, get routine inspections and buy our equipment from the same places the big guys do." He knocked his hand against the big stainless-steel fermenter. He went to the wall where they had a shelf of glasses for tasting. "You want to try what we're working on right now?"

Her eyes lit up. "Um, yes."

Smiling at her enthusiastic response, he went to the fermenter, where they still had their latest brew. They'd move it over to the kegs and bottle it in the next week or so. From the spout, he filled up two glasses, then handed her one. It was a rich red color and, as he suspected, Brooke lifted a brow when she held the glass up to the light.

"This almost looks like a frothy wine."

He grinned. "Pretty weak wine if you can see through it like that."

That brought a cheeky side eye his way as she brought the rim of the glass to her lips and took a sip. "You can see through white zinfandel."

"I like my wine dark, rich and full bodied."

Her coy smile grew as she let the beer slosh around her mouth for a moment.

Even though he knew it was good, he held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

"Mmmm," she hummed, licking her lips as her eyes opened wide. She took another sip. "That's really good. Tart and ..." she smacked her lips together, "berry-y. Raspberries?"

She had a keen and observant palate. He liked that. "Yeah. It's a traditional German sour wheat ale. Dates all the way back to sixteenth century Berlin, actually. And we fermented it with fresh raspberries."

She took a third sip, which prompted him to finally take a sip of his own. It really was fucking delicious. He wasn't too humble to admit it. He made good beer.

"What's this one called?" she asked, having already finished more than half her glass.

His lips twisted. "That's one of the reasons we haven't bottled it yet. We can't come up with a name. Can't sell it, and have labels printed if we don't know what to call it."

"And you're trying to be punny? Or funny? Or ..."

"Just catchy. It doesn't have to be goofy. Some of our beers have funny names. Others are straight and to the point. But Raspberry German Sour Ale just sounds long-winded and boring."

"Hmmmm ..." She tapped her chin with her fingertip. "Raspberry Sour Power?"

He liked the rhyming. Power and sour.

"Summer Berry Sour Power?" she offered. "The S-B-S-P for short." Her smile was playful and bright. "Sbsp," she said, then giggled. "It sounds like what you say to get a cat to come. Sbsp sbsp." Rolling her lips inward to hide a bigger smile, her eyes went wide. "Um, I think I might be a little drunk. I took some pretty big sips from that bottle."

"You finished that bottle," he said matter-of-factly.

"Then basically chugged this delicious beer."

He finished his own glass and set it down on a nearby counter, then prowled toward her. "Ooh, baby, you're singing my love language. Praise for my beer is one way to definitely get my engine revving."

She put her glass down as well and rested her hands on his shoulders when his fell to her waist. "Yeah? Is that all it takes to get you in the mood? Praise your beer?"

"One of the ways, yeah."

"What's another way?"

His hands worked their way down, and he cupped her perfect ass cheeks, hauling her against his rising erection. Her eyes flared when she felt it against her pelvis. "Just being you works, too."

"This feels good," she mused. "All of it. Us ... being a little tipsy and leaving my problems on the other side of that door."

"You have zero problems in here," he reassured her, then his smile turned wry. "Well, maybe how we're going to quickly get your pants off, but I'd say that's less of a problem than it is a minor inconvenience."

"I like that this isn't hard."

They both instantly chuckled when they realized her innuendo.

"I mean, I'm glad that this is hard," she corrected. "But that us, isn't difficult. You know what I mean?"

"I do," he said, solemnly. "I did hard and ... I don't ever want to do it again. I know that relationships take work, but ... it shouldn't always feel like you're pushing a boulder up a hill, right?"

She shook her head. "No, it shouldn't."

He scoffed a laugh. "We've only known each other for five days, maybe we're getting ahead of ourselves."

"Maybe ..." she fiddled with the hair at the nape of his neck, "but maybe not."

Heat ignited in his lower abdomen, and his cock pressed painfully against the zipper of his shorts.

"Have you ever had sex in here before?" she asked, dropping her hands from the nape of his neck and wedging them between their bodies until she found his button and zipper.

"No," he breathed.

Unfastening his shorts, she fished her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, past his neatly trimmed hair, and wrapped her slender fingers around his shaft. "Do you want to?" she asked, leaning forward and sliding her tongue up from where his shoulder met his neck to his earlobe. "Do you want to bend me over that ... thing over there and take me from behind?"

The thing she was referring to was the malt grain mill, and it was a little big to bend her over. It'd probably be easier to bend her over the stainless-steel table on the other side of the room. And he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of ways to use the hoist trolley and suspend her like she was in a sex swing. Not going to happen, but a man could fantasize. And he'd certainly fantasized about taking Brooke in his happy place.

His other happy place, of course, was the beach. But until she was out of hiding, they'd have to refrain from public sex. Even if the likelihood of being caught at this time of night on the beach was slim.

"I'm not sure I could bend you over the grain mill," he said, stuffing down a groan when she stroked him in his pants. "But the table ..."

"Mmmm," she hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck and moving her mouth around to the front of his throat, where she circled his Adam's apple with her tongue. "I just want you to bend me over."

"That I can do."

She nipped his chin and a feral, horny beast roared to life inside of him. He liked this side of her, but he also knew relinquishing control turned her on. She wanted to feel safe and protected. To have her needs anticipated and met.

Growling, he pulled her hand free of his pants, gripped her by the hips, and carried her over to the table. Her gasp of surprise galvanized his speed and need. He spun her around so she faced away from him. She leaned over, planting her hands on the table, and he gripped both sides of the waistband of her yoga pants and forcefully tugged them down, taking her lacy black thong with them.

His hands cupped her ass, and he squeezed, loving how plump and firm the cheeks were. Like two perfectly ripe summer peaches, just ready for a bite. Angling forward, he sunk his teeth into the fleshy part of her right cheek and she sucked in a sharp, startled breath.

He squeezed her ass harder, and she pushed her hips back, shoving her cheek deeper into his palm, encouraging him.

He nipped her again.

She gasped, but it was quickly snuffed out by a moan and her pelvis churned, seeking friction.

Sliding one hand between her legs, he gently sought her center.

She was already soaked.

He gathered a bit of that natural, delicious lubricant and inched his fingers forward a little more until he found that throbbing little button, giving it a playful rub. Her legs wobbled.

Chuckling, he scooted up closer behind her, pressing his cock—still hard as fuck in his shorts—against her ass, holding her in position so if her knees did buckle, he'd keep her safe.

He wiggled his fingers again.

She groaned and shoved her ass even harder against him, eliciting a groan from him.

"Clint ..." she mewled.

"I thought you wanted me to bend you over."

"I do ..."

He liked tipsy Brooke. She was playful but also demanding. Sober Brooke was also hot as fuck. But the fact that the alcohol in her system had loosened her up a bit was fun.

She shimmied her butt against him again. "Please fuck me. Please."

"Oooh, I like it when you beg. You know that."

"That's why I'm doing it," she snapped back, turning her head to give him a mock glare that simply pulled a big dumb smile from him.

He waggled his fingers over her clit again, and she tilted her hips in such a way. Like she was trying to get him to also slip a finger inside her. She was hungry. She wanted him to fill her up.

He would.

Just not yet.

He liked playing with her. He liked keeping her focused on them and what he was doing to her rather than everything outside and all the troubles in her life. Right there, in that moment, in that space, she was safe. She'd always be safe with him. Safe to be herself. She didn't have to pretend or act like everything was all right. He'd shoulder her burden and carry her worry. He'd shield her from the pain as best he could.

"I need a cock inside me," she said in a pleading whimper. "Preferably yours, but at this point, I'm not picky."

Oooh, she knew exactly what she was doing. That earned her another bite on the butt cheek, followed by a little smack. A smack that made her croon and the flesh of her ass pink up beautifully.

"Cheeky," he murmured.

Her legs were spread as much as possible, given that she was still in her slip-on shoes and her yoga pants were around her ankles.

He could make it work, but he'd rather she be a bit more pliant, so removing his fingers from between her legs he dropped to a crouch and carefully removed her shoes and relieved her of her pants, leaving her standing there bare from the waist down.

"Fuck, that's hot," he rumbled, trailing his hands back up one of her legs from her ankle to her ass cheek. She trembled under his touch. When he reached the bottom curve of her cheek, he gave it a little nip, and she promptly pushed herself back against his face. "Well, if you insist." Then he slid his tongue between her legs and found her clit again.

"Oh my God," she cried, probably louder than she intended. Her words echoed off the walls and rafters.

Her hips bucked. His tongue never stopped on her clit. She panted and moaned. Gyrated against his face as he savored every drop of that sweet honey that fell across his tongue.

His cock strained against his zipper, and in his crouched position, it wasn't particularly comfortable. But he also didn't want to stop. He wanted to get her there. He wanted to push her over the edge and make her feel as good as he felt just being around her.

Like he could do anything.

Like his heart had finally healed enough to allow another person to take up space in it.

Like the future was possible and far from bleak.

"Dear God," Brooke panted, slamming her palms to the table. "I'm going to ... oh God, I'm going to come."

Yes.

He kept the pace with his tongue until she stilled. Everything pulsed and throbbed. Her clit swelled beneath his tongue, and more of her sweet and salty arousal filled his mouth.

He never stopped, never slowed down. He pushed her right to the edge until she toppled over, and he held onto her for the entire glorious ride down.

When her climax finally waned and she released a satisfied exhale, he stood up from his uncomfortable crouched position. His knees only cracked a bit, but his back wasn't happy. He ignored all the telltale signs that he was no longer in his twenties and let his shorts and boxers drop to his ankles.

Grabbing her by the ass cheeks again, he palmed and squeezed them. "Fuck, you've got a great ass."

She wiggled it against his cock and bit her bottom lip as she stared back at him. "One day maybe you could ..." Her brows lifted.

"Oh, absolutely. But not tonight."

Positioning himself at her entrance, he held onto her hips and slowly eased inside.

Their moans were in unison as he filled her up.

Then she said the words that would be forever emblazoned on his brain and would make him hard whenever he thought of them. "Just like that."

He was a fucking goner.