Dirty Sexy Secret (Green County Book 1) (5 page)

Archer’s hands, wrapped around my waist, tightens, tugging me against him for a heartbeat, and I want to stay there.

Which has always been the problem.

Both of them are silent, waiting for me to say something. Anything else. I don’t. I snuggle into Archer’s shoulder, and his head comes down, resting against my hair in the dark, and I soak up the bliss that is being around the men who have always held me together.

I creep through the house silently, stepping over Eli, long limbs sprawled like a sleeping puppy on my rug and a nest of pillows. He snores softly, and I smile, leaning over to tug the empty beer bottle from his hand. Archer is stretched out on the couch, pressed against the cushions.

I had been nestled against him.

After the moment of Brutal Honest on the porch, Archer had decided we were all getting drunk. He fed us chicken and roasted potatoes and smirked when I was startled that he knew what the hell he was doing in the kitchen.

Which, in hindsight, makes sense. He worked in the kitchens at Nora’s diner before he joined the Corps.

But he hadn’t gloated. He’d grabbed some beers and tugged me against him, Eli sprawled on the floor next to us as we watched Monty Python, and I fell through time to those sun-soaked summers when this was our normal, and it wasn’t about sex or desire or control. Him holding me was only to ground me, in the moment, with my family.

For one night, all our damage was gone, and I was Hazy and he was my Archer, and it was good.

Until I woke up to a silent living room, and him, all around me, and I rolled into him, instinctive, my head tilting up to find bare skin with my lips and he groaned, a low hungry note that jolted me out of my dreams and back the fuck into reality.

I almost fell on Eli in my haste to get the fuck away.

The kitchen is spotless—Eli insisted on cleaning while Archer selected a movie for us.

My brother is always going to be taking care of me. They both, will. In their ways.

“Hazy-Eyes,” a low voice splits the dark and I almost drop the beer bottle.

I do make a noise, a startled little squeak that I already hate myself for.

Archer makes a noise that’s almost a laugh as he steps into the kitchen. His voice is sleep deep and rumbling, a rough caress against my skin and I want more.

God fucking help me, I want more.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed,” I answer, turning away to dump the empties in the sink.

“You were sleeping, sweetheart. And keeping me warm. I don’t like waking up to find you missing.”

It’s said so simply, a bald statement of fact that brings me instantly to that moment.

He’s stretched out in bed, tattooed skin sprawled against slate blue sheets, his hand fisted under one pillow, an arm stretched across the bed. Sleeping, he looks almost young.

Almost carefree.

Almost.

I can still taste him.

I whisper softly into the dark room, and then slip out. My suitcase is in the closet by the door, and I grab it silently, ignoring the tears burning in my eyes as I slip out and into my little car.

“
Hazel?” he asks, soft and serious, and I blink out of the memories. He’s watching me, with that curious, waiting patience that tells me he’ll wait forever.

Wait for me to come back to him, or tell him to fuck off or god only knows what.

“Archer, I—”

He prowls closer to me and his hands find my waist, clenching there and rubbing tight little circles into my skin through the think cotton of my tank top.

“Come back to sleep, Hazy-Eyes.”

I want to. God. I want it so fucking bad. Almost as much as I want to go on my tiptoes and kiss him.

I still can remember exactly how he tastes and the sweet burn of stubble on my neck when he nuzzles into me.

“Why did you leave?”

“Because you were going to push me off the couch,” I say, immediately and his eyes go dark and hungry.

“Then get closer to me,” he murmurs, and it rubs against my skin, a sweet caress.

“Can’t,” I whimper, and he huffs softly, and then he’s kissing me.

And god.
God.

I thought I remembered. I’d spent so many nights, hand between my thighs, remembering. So many second dates, comparing some sweet stranger to what I wasn’t allowed to have.

And I was wrong.

God I was wrong. Because this is
real,
all sweet sugar and tart mint and
Archer
and even my memories, as good as they were, pale in comparison.

To the flex of his fingers on my hips, digging in with this delicious pressure.

To the heavy weight of him, pressing me into the counter, his hand braced against the small of my back, keeping it from digging in.

To the sweeping pressure of his lips, rubbing against mine, until he nips at my lower lip, catches it between his own and
tugs
and I gasp.

And it’s all over. Everything.

Archer sweeps in, like he did when we were kids and I needed to be saved, like he did when we were teens and a boyfriend made me cry, like he’s done every fucking time in my life.

His hands come up and frame my face, angles me just the way he wants, and he drinks me down.

Fucking devours me, his lips a goddamn tsunami force above me, knocking me out to sea, drowning me, ripping me apart and then.

Oh god, and then.

His tongue, soft and gentle, stroking along like a whisper, like a promise, his thumbs smoothing over my cheekbones, sweeping down to press against my throat.

Tethering me as I moan, soft and hungry, into him, putting me back together as I shudder in his grasp.

Make a tiny noise in the back of my throat, and he growls, a low rumble that hits me like a fucking fist, and shifts, lifting me until I’m on the counter, my legs wrapped around him, and
fuck
.

Jesus.

Better. This is better. I nip at his lips and he groans, jerking away from me to trail kisses down my throat, a hot path that has my head falling back and a low keen working its way up my throat.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my skin, and I can hear the smile in his voice, can feel it pressing against my skin, “Don’t wake up Elijah.”

Shit.

Eli.

I shove at him, hard and Archer laughs, a low rumble, before he kisses my throat again, scraping teeth against my skin, and sucking hard, until my hands are scrambling against him, holding him to me as I arch into the touch, and it’s not enough.

“Archer,” I grit out, and his head comes up.

His lips are bright red and wet, and I want them everywhere. I want everything.

Maybe. Maybe because of the alcohol, or maybe because tonight has felt like something stolen—a secret we’re still keeping.

But I reach for him, pull him to me instead of pushing him away. His breath shudders against my skin, and then he’s kissing me again and I’m wiggling closer, because
fuck
it’s been
four years.

“Missed you,” he pants between kisses and I swallow down the sob that’s threatening.

More.

I need more.

“I
need more.”
I hiss, and his mouth drops, skating over my skin. Yanks my tank top down and his mouth covers me, sucks me deep. Twists around my nipple as his hands clench on my hips, yanking me forward and grinding against me and I can feel the scream, building and building, with every twist of his tongue around me and every hard draw on me and “
Archer,”
I groan.

His hand slaps over my lips and I bite down as he draws on my tit, hard, and something deep inside clenches and twists.

“Shh, baby,” he soothes, pulling back. “Shh.”

He tugs until I’m on the edge of the counter, and then drops to his knees.

And I almost fall off the damn counter because there is nothing in this world as unrelentingly erotic as Brandon Archer on his knees.

Then he shifts me, yanks my shorts to one side, and thank Christ that I wore shorts, and his lips whisper over me and I swallow my scream.

Let my head fall back as I fight to breathe. My hand is in his hair—when did
that
happen?—and his nose is nudging my clit and he whispers against me, something soft and secret and lost. I have a heartbeat to wonder what, before he licks, and my entire body lights up like a damn Christmas tree, tension and pleasure and
want
arcing through me.

I’m a wire, and he’s the current, and he’s playing me like a goddamn fiddle. I’m rocking into him, into the tiny whispers and nudging caress, the gentle strokes of his tongue as his big hands come up, holding me open, and rubbing, and I do make a noise then, a low moan that sounds like sex and he laughs, the bastard laughs, making a shushing noise against my wet cunt like it’s a game, and I snarl.

So fucking close, and he’s teasing.

I yank,
pull
at his hair until he obliges, rising to his feet, all grace and sex poured over muscles and wrapped up with a smile so fucking sinful it would make a nun fall.

It made me fall.

Head over heels, the first time it twisted into a wry grin.

I fall into it now, kiss him as his fingers slide into me and he groans at the feel. Hisses against my throat, “Tight, baby. God, you’re so fucking tight.”

I roll my hips, fucking myself slow on his fingers as I lick into his mouth and it’s different—he tastes like himself, like Archer, but also me, all sex and safety wrapped up in one, and his fingers are crooking, rubbing, his thumb pressing sweet slow circles that are driving me crazy, until—

There.

One hand on my neck, sweet and soothing, his thumb rubbing under my ear as he kisses me and I scream, into his lips.

Come, shuddering around his fingers.

And he takes it.

Swallows down my scream like it’s nothing, his fingers slow and soothing in me, a gentle pet as I shudder and quake and he holds me through, coaxes me through.

I’m sweaty and sleepy when he pulls away and his lips brush my forehead before he picks me up.

Carries me back to the couch and tucks me against him, one arm a band around my waist, the other hand tucking my head to the crook of his shoulder where I’ve always fit.

“Go to sleep, Hazy-Eyes,” he whispers.

So I do.

W
hen I wake up, I’m alone on the couch.

And, “Fucking hell, I’m tired of this shit,” I mutter, shifting on the couch and the too cold cushions.

The thing is it’s not a surprise.

When I first moved in with Nora, I was a wreck. A fucking disaster walking, doing more damage than I did good.

But then, Nora did what she does and I looked around. Like actually looked around, and saw what was happening.

And it woke me up. Eli was easy. We got into a fight, I let him beat the hell outta me and I tugged him from his nightmares. Easy. A brother for life, almost faster than I could anticipate. The thing about Eli was that he reminded me that I needed someone else. That I wasn’t an island. I take care of people—it’s who I was. No real surprise that I went into the Corps and then later the force. It let me do the thing I did best--take care of people.

And usually it was easy. As easy as breathing. People want to be taken care of.

But Hazel.

Hazel was an uphill battle from day one.

The kid is like a ghost. A blonde, big eyed, vaguely violent ghost.

Everyone thought I was too fucked to pay attention to anything but my own damage but everyone was fucking idiotic.

She
didn’t buy that. I know because she watched me. She was almost fiercely protective of Eli, even if she was a year younger. She watches me with him, and I’ve seen the way she relaxes by slow degrees.

After Eli punches me and we both have a black eye and a fist full of busted knuckles, she actually smiled.

And holy fuck. I was lost, in that moment. Because when Hazel Campton smiles, which she never does, it’s like a fucking revelation.

Sunshine and laughter and this intoxicating flash of fuck-the-world bite to those big baby blues.

I want to make her smile. Every day.

I want to chase that ever present sadness away until all I ever see in her is sunlight and danger.

And she? Wants absolutely nothing to do with me.

Nora and Eli bought my self-destructive shit. And it was real. I was spiraling hard. But they also bought her fake smile and quiet ok.

And
that
was bullshit.

I watched her, when I was with Eli. When she was doing homework and reading and sometimes when she thought she was alone.

I saw the way she held herself, too still and tight, like the wrong word would shatter her.

I saw the way she dug her nails into her palms, and held knives a little too long and sat in the dim light of her room alone.

Nora and Eli didn’t see it.

Whatever else she was, Hazel was very careful.