Let It Breathe (25 page)

The second she stepped into the lobby, she saw Clay standing there. He wasn’t alone.

“Eric,” she said. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was right down the street on an errand when Sheila called,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

She took a shaky breath and grabbed his hand. “You know how you’re always telling me marriage is really tough? How it’s not easy, how you need to work hard at it every single day?”

He nodded, his expression wary.

Reese squeezed his hand. “Remember that, okay?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Though Reese and Clay offered to stay at the police station with Eric and Sheila, they both declined. “We’ve got a lot to work through here,” Eric had said in his usual gruff tone.

Reese bit her lip. “You’re planning to work through it, though, right?”

“That’s what marriage is, Reese,” he said. “A helluva lot of work. But worth it, in the long run.”

She’d nodded and retreated out to her car without another word. Clay followed at a short distance, intent on talking to her one way or another. Of course, despite his insistence they needed to talk, he wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to say.

He spent the fifteen-minute drive to the vineyard contemplating it as he watched Reese’s taillights flicker in front of him. Her hair slid along the nape of her neck as she glanced in the rearview mirror, her eyes catching his for a brief moment before darting back to the road.

Clay followed her up the gravel driveway, watching as row after row of grapevines fluttered past in the dark en route to Reese’s little house. He hadn’t set foot inside since the night they’d slept together. Since he’d held her in his arms, made her whimper, made her moan.

The thought of stepping over the threshold now made his gut seize a little.

He brought the truck to a halt and sat there for a few seconds composing himself. By the time he swung open the driver’s side door and stepped out onto the gravel, Reese had disappeared inside.

The front door stood open, so Clay walked through it, his palms already beginning to sweat. He took his shoes off by the door, not wanting to track mud over her clean floor.

She stood motionless in front of the kitchen, her hands clenched awkwardly at her sides. Clay studied her face, looking for clues to her emotional state while he admired the curve of her cheek. She wore no makeup, and he couldn’t remember whether she usually did or not. With her hair loose and wild around her shoulders, there was an unpredictable air about her, and it made him ache to reach out and touch her. He swallowed hard and forced himself to stop staring.

“You want something to drink?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” Clay said. Then he stopped. That was an impulse response—an attempt to be polite—to not inconvenience her.

Fuck it. He
was
thirsty.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “A Coke would be great.”

Reese blinked, then nodded. “I’m not sure I have Coke,” she said, moving into the kitchen. She didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights, though the under-cabinet lighting cast a warm glow on the countertops. She pried open the refrigerator door and leaned down to peer inside. Clay felt his head spin as he watched her bend over.

Caveman,
he told himself.

So what?

“There’s one Coke in here,” she called. “You want ice?”

She stood up and looked at him. He hesitated. A polite guy wouldn’t take the last of anything in her fridge. Or he’d at least ask if she wanted it.

That seemed stupid.

“I’ll take it, thanks,” he said. “What are you drinking?”

“Pinot Noir, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually, I do mind.”

“What?”

Clay folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t mind if you drink around me—especially in your own home. I can handle it. But right now, for this conversation, for anything else that might happen this evening, I want to be sure you’re totally, completely in control of your words and thoughts and actions.”

Reese stared at him. Then she shook her head and looked down at the Coke can.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I can do that. No wine, not tonight. I’ll drink milk. I draw the line at pouring it in a glass, though. It’s a straight-from-the-carton kinda night.”

“Fair enough.”

Clay reached up to grab one glass from the cupboard. He handed it to her without comment, and Reese opened the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice cubes. She dropped them one by one into the glass, the clinking sound making Clay think of Scotch. He pushed the thought from his mind and watched Reese’s hands.

“Is it okay if we don’t talk about Sheila?” she asked. “I’m kind of in shock, and I just—well, I just need some time to process things, okay?”

“Not a problem.”

Reese kept her eyes on the glass, which gave Clay a few more seconds to study her. Her hair was the same color as the cola but bore a few streaks of caramel and a few threads of silver and cinnamon and a dozen other colors he couldn’t name.

She looked up then, and Clay’s gut flipped as she pinned him in place with those wild green eyes.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“You’re beautiful.”

She looked away, flushed in the dimly lit kitchen.

“Do you know what the fight was about at Finnigan’s?” he asked.

She looked up, startled. “What?”

“The fight. Not the one the other night. The one five years ago. The one where you got hurt.”

She swallowed and shook her head. “Do you want to tell me?”

“Yes.” He balled his hands into fists, remembering every detail of that night. The smell of beer, the twang of country music over crackly speakers, the way Reese touched her hair and glanced nervously around the bar.

“I was wasted,” Clay said. “What’s new, right? I pulled out my wallet to buy another round, and this guy next to me catches a look at one of the pictures I’ve got tucked in there. He looks at you, looks at me, looks at the picture, starts going off saying all kinds of crude shit about how hot you were and what he wanted to do to you, and I just—”

“You had a picture of me?”

Clay reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tossed it on the counter in front of her, bumping the Coke can against the glass. “I still do.”

She blinked at it but didn’t pick it up. She looked back at him and swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I’ve always been in love with you, Reese.
Always
. I still am.”

“What—how—”

“I kept my distance because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. And I may not remember everything about those years I was drinking like a goddamn fish, but I never forgot that.”

She looked back down at the wallet. She picked it up and opened it. She began flipping through it, past his credit cards to the photos at the back. She stopped, staring down at the wallet. “There’s more than one picture of me,” she said. “There are three. These are from college.”

He nodded. “Back when I still had a chance with you and blew it. And don’t think I didn’t notice the opportunity to make a blowjob joke right there. I’m still me, Reese. I just forgot that for a little while, but I’m done holding my tongue all the time and trying to say the right thing.”

She closed the wallet and set it back on the counter. She looked up at him. “Still want that Coke?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and popped open the can. She began to pour—too fast. The foam bubbled up and over the rim, spilling onto her fingers. She lifted them to her mouth, but Clay stepped forward and caught her left wrist.

“Let me,” he said.

He gave her a fraction of a second to resist or pull away, but she did neither. She just looked at him, those green eyes flashing in the dim light of the kitchen.

He drew her hand up and slid her fingers into his mouth.

“Oh,” she said.

She tasted sweet—not just the cola but something else. Something warm and exotic and strangely familiar. He slid his tongue lightly over the pads of her fingers and felt her body shift as she angled herself closer and gasped.

Clay drew her fingers deeper into his mouth, sucking lightly, then withdrawing. His tongue found the junction of her middle and ring finger, and he tasted her there, lingering in that soft cleft.

Reese groaned, her body seeming to liquefy as she pressed closer and braced herself against the counter with her other hand.

“I thought we were going to talk,” she murmured.

He pulled back, freeing his mouth but not her hand. He stroked the inside of her wrist with his index finger.

“I’m done talking,” he said. “I’m done doing a lot of things.”

Reese nodded, then looked at his mouth. “Not that, I hope.”

“Not that,” he murmured against her knuckles. “But I’m done apologizing. I’ve done it enough now. I’m done crawling. And I’m done not saying what I feel because I’m afraid of offending someone.”

“I never wanted you to crawl,” she murmured. “And what you’re feeling—” She moaned as his tongue traced the ridges of her knuckles. “I always wanted you to tell me that.”

Clay shook his head and slid his hand along her waist. “I told you, I’m done talking. I’d rather show you instead.”

She gasped as he slid his hand down, moving along the path of her spine. He pulled her closer, his palm pressing hard into the small of her back as his mouth sipped at her knuckles.

He kissed his way along the fleshy part of her thumb and into the hollow of her wrist. She was warm there, and he could feel her pulse fluttering against his lips. He slid his other hand under her shirt, tracing the warm, bare column of her spine before slipping around to the front to cup her breast.

Reese sighed with pleasure and opened her eyes to look at him. “Two days ago you asked me at least a dozen times if I wanted to stop,” she murmured. “Aren’t you going to ask this time?”

“No.”

“Not even once?”

Clay shook his head. “If you want to stop, I know you well enough to be sure you’ll tell me.”

She nodded, then whimpered as he drew her hand to his mouth once more. He moved his lips over the inside of the wrist before pressing it to his sternum. He let go, and she held it there, her fingers splaying over his chest as she blinked up at him. Her chest was rising and falling fast beneath the thin top, and the feel of her breast pressing against his palm was enough to make him dizzy. It was all he could do to resist the urge to just bend her over the sink and have his way with her.

“I want you, Reese,” he murmured. “I’ve always wanted you. And I’m pretty sure you want me, too.”

She hesitated, then nodded as she licked her lips. “Yes.”

“But wanting isn’t the only thing between us, is it?” he asked. “I wouldn’t be here if that were the case.”

He stroked his thumb over her nipple and she gasped.

Then she slid her fingers down over his abs, then around his back. Her other hand joined that one and she gripped his shoulder blades, using them to pull him closer.

Clay slid his hand out from under her shirt and moved both hands to her shoulders. He shoved the flannel aside, baring the thin straps of the tank top. He kissed her left shoulder as the flannel fell away, dropping over her hands and onto the floor. Clay kicked it aside, not caring where it landed.

He trailed both hands down her rib cage, traveling downward until he found the hem of the tank top. He gripped the fabric and, in one quick motion, pulled the shirt up over her head.

Reese lifted her arms and the top slid off, leaving her standing there in her bra. She licked her lips as her nipples strained against the pink satin. Clay tossed the tank top aside, barely registering that it landed in the sink.

Polite Clay would have worried about water stains.

Normal Clay found the clasp of her bra with both hands.

He yanked the hooks apart, releasing the tension. Then he slid his hands up and pushed the straps from her shoulders, letting the bra fall to the ground.

“Oh,” she breathed as Clay nipped her bare shoulder, his teeth rough on her smooth skin. “Topless in my kitchen. This is new.”

“You should always be topless in your kitchen,” he said, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Reese responded, opening her mouth to him and sliding one hand up to cup his face.

He kissed her like that for what seemed like hours, moving from her lips to her throat, dragging his teeth over the rounded mounds of her shoulders. They were both breathing hard as he slid down her throat, trailing kisses until he reached the edge of her collarbone. He moved one hand beneath her breast, savoring the weight of it. He cupped it gently, moving his mouth down to kiss the edges of it. As his teeth grazed her nipple, Reese dug her fingernails into the back of his head, urging him on.

He kissed her there, savoring the soft flesh of one breast, then the other, as Reese squirmed and whimpered. She drew one hand out of his hair and found his biceps, digging her nails in lightly.

“Your tattoo,” she whispered, tracing it with one fingertip. “Why wouldn’t you tell me what it said?”

Clay lifted his mouth from her breast and straightened, his fingers covering her bare nipples. He swallowed.

“It was crude. I got it when I was young. After the first stint in rehab—the one that didn’t take. I was embarrassed. I’ll tell you now—”

“I already know,” she murmured.

“I wanted you to think I’d matured. That I’d stopped making dirty jokes, stopped drinking, stopped being a jackass.”

She shook her head and traced a finger over the words. “I didn’t want you to stop being you.”

“Me neither.”

She looked up at him from under her lashes, her expression halfway between playful and dangerous.
“Res firma mitescere nescit,”
she murmured. “‘A rigid thing doesn’t soften.’ Right?”

“Something like that.”

She gave him a salacious grin. “Want to prove it?”

Clay pressed his hand into the small of her back, drawing her closer. She slid her leg between his and could feel him hard against her thigh.

“You have to ask?” he murmured.

“No, but I wanted to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“I’m hard for
you
, Reese—I want
you
, Reese.”

“I am. I do. I always have.”

She smiled. “Always?”

“Longer than you know.”

“Double entendre?” she murmured as she slid her hand over him, down and then back up, stroking the solid length of him through the denim.

Clay groaned and gripped her by the shoulders. In one motion, he spun her around, turning her to face the kitchen counter. She moaned as he cupped her breasts from behind, then slid one hand down to tug at her belt buckle. He yanked it open with one hand, then started on her zipper, not willing to take his other hand off her breast to speed things along.