Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The truck pulls into my driveway, stopping right beside my car. His headlights hit the front of my blue house, and both of us look forward into the dark since I’d forgotten to turn on my porch light before leaving.
Driving home from dinner was peaceful. He took the long way back instead of using the interstate and held my hand the entire way. When I’d climbed into the passenger seat, he didn’t give much warning before tugging me into the middle, so our thighs and sides were plastered together, buckling me in before doing the same for himself and taking my hand after we pulled out of the parking lot and threading our fingers together.
Even still, they’re laced together, resting in the same place on my thigh. His large hand encasing my little one, and I can’t help but look down and smile.
“Got you something,” Fletcher says quietly, reaching over me and opening the glove compartment. I’m shocked when he produces a simple blue box with a white ribbon on it and straightens, holding it out to me. “I know Valentine’s Day was a few days ago, but…”
We didn’t get to see each other on Valentine’s Day, something I told myself meant nothing. He and Dominic hadn’t been home until late at night, well after Nicki’s bedtime, I assume, and I wasn’t sure where they’d been and didn’t let myself think too much about it.
According to Dad, the holiday is nothing but “corporate bullshit” to boost the economy. Mom always rolls her eyes at the little rant and comes back with a teasing, “and you wonder why we divorced” as if his drinking wasn’t really the issue at all.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I tell him quietly, wrapping my fingers around the box and brushing the ribbon tied around it.
He clears his throat. “Had it for a bit. I thought it was a good time to give it to you.” When I undo the ribbon and lift the lid, I stare at the necklace inside, blinking, lips parted, and let out a tiny breath. Fletcher adds, “Bought it at the winter carnival. It reminded me of the marble you gave to Nicki, so I wanted to replace it with something you could wear.”
My eyes go from the blue gem jewelry to the man who bought it for me, eyes glassy and heart dancing a little faster in my ribcage. “You bought this for me at the winter carnival?”
His chin dips.
I swallow, stare back at the necklace, the item he bought me before I’d even know how to process what I was feeling for him, and let out another tiny, shaky breath. “It’s beautiful, Fletcher. Thank you.”
He takes the box, picks up the necklace, and murmurs, “Turn around. I’ll put it on.”
I give him my back and lift my hair up as his long arms circle me, settling the gift around my neck and struggling with the clasp. When I feel the cool metal against my skin, I look down, brush it with my fingers, and then turn my body back to face him.
“Feel like I’m too old to ask women to be my Valentine,” he admits in that gruff voice of his, his hand reaching out and tracing the line of my jaw until it rests against my cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to show the woman I would ask that I care about her.”
Is this man even real?
“It’s a good way to show it,” I find myself answering, voice hoarse. I give him a watery smile before my eyes trail to the house.
I touch the necklace.
Take a deep breath.
And look back at the man who’s watching me with curious eyes. “Want to come in? Or do you need to go back home for anything?”
The question is out before I can regret asking it, and I don’t let myself worry about what’s going through his mind. All I can think about is what’s going through mine. Things I haven’t thought about doing in a really long time.
Not sober anyway.
“Stevie…” The husky way he says my name tells me he’s probably thinking very similar things. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s followed me inside my home, but it’d be the first time as more than neighbors.
“You can say no,” I whisper, inching forward and staring at his mouth. I wait for the two letters to form on his lips, a smooth, respectful rejection from a gentleman.
So, I’m glad when he doesn’t say it.
His hand, still cupping my face, twitches, his thumb brushing my bottom lip and feeling the hitched breath leave me from the subtle movement.
Before I let myself overthink it, I lean forward and make the first move. Whether he planned on doing the same or not, I can’t be sure, but based on the way he was touching me, looking at me, I’d say I’m probably not wrong.
As soon as our lips brush, he releases a low groan from his throat. Then, when I apply more pressure, angling my lips to capture his, he moves his free hand around my waist and pulls me closer into his body. With the green light clearly given by me, he takes over.
His lips search for the perfect angle, the perfect taste, before inviting himself into my mouth and teasing my tongue with his. I can taste the lingering hops from the beer he’d had with his water and the smokey sauce that was put on his medium-rare burger and let out a breathy version of his name when that hand on my face moves to cup the back of my skull and thread through my hair, fisting my hair carefully to tilt my head back and give himself access to my exposed neck.
Lips moving from mine to my jaw, to my chin, to my throat, I arch forward until my chest brushes against his and feel teeth graze the skin above my pulse until I can’t physically take it.
“Take me inside,” I all but beg him, feeling the fingers in my hair tighten before he releases another groan.
He kisses me again, crushing our mouths together with a desperation that I haven’t felt in forever. Maybe never. I don’t remember ever feeling like I needed somebody’s hands on my body and mouth on mine as much as I needed Fletcher’s to completely take control.
I don’t get lost on those thoughts before we’re unbuckled and moving from his truck to the door, hand in hand, his body towering over mine as I unlock the door with slightly trembling hands and disappearing into the open living room until those hands that were on me before are back in place, capturing my hips before his mouth finds mine in the dark, bending down to make sure he can nip my lip and suck it into his mouth and back us toward the stairs.
He only pulls back as we walk up the steps to say, “We don’t have to do anything.”
The words comfort me, but don’t tame the achy feeling between my legs that scream for this to go as far as it possibly can. “What if I want to?” I ask, stopping at my closed bedroom door.
He’s never been up here before, never seen the place I fall asleep every night or wake up every morning. He doesn’t know that I’d laid down in bed weeks ago with thoughts of him that sparked my body to life.
I never gave it to myself—never slid my hands past the elastic of my pajama bottoms, never thought of the man who was making me want to touch myself so badly, and never let myself go to a place I knew I’d never come back from.
Because the moment I would give in to the fantasies of those large hands holding me, and that muscular body hovering over me, on me, in me, I was done for.
Completely gone.
Looking up at him now, feeling the searing eyes he’s watching me with, tells me that I’m already there.
Gone.
Desperate.
Needy.
So, I reach behind me and turn the doorknob, letting the wood crack open before drawing him forward. His arms around me, lifting me up to make up the height difference, with his lips pressing against mine, pecking once, twice, a third time, before moving down to my throat and licking, sucking, whispering beautiful words into my skin, before we stop at my bed.
He asks, “Are you sure, baby?”
And if I wasn’t before, the way his soft voice turned me into mush did the trick. Because it was clear as day by the lust in his eyes and the long, hard pipe in his pants pressed against me that he was sure—he wanted me. This. But he was never going to force me into something I wasn’t ready for.
That only made me ten times more ready.
Once the “I’m sure” was out of my mouth, his hands went to my hips, lifting me up higher before one of those impressive hands trailed its way up my spine until he was gently lowering me onto my back across the mattress. His body came down next, careful not to crush me but hovering, his lips caressing every exposed part of my face, neck, and collarbone he could get to.
We’d taken off our jackets downstairs, throwing them over pieces of furniture without care. Then our shoes along the way up. Now, the roughness of his jeans against my leggings, where his body is settled between my parted thighs, gives me the perfect friction to arch up and feel the heat gather between my thighs. His erection only gets harder when my fingers slowly trail to the hem of his shirt, slip under the soft material, and begin lifting it up. Finally, he straightens on his knees, reaching behind him and yanking the piece of clothing off in one pull to expose the trimmed waist and hard-earned muscles sculpting his torso.
If I’m being honest with myself, I know from the few times I let my eyes linger in the past that he used to be a lot more muscular from all the training he did with the men on base, but I like him better this way—healthy and happy with skin wrapping around the muscles that remain from all the physical labor he still does. He’s as beautiful as a man can be, with a V practically pointing toward the waistband of the denim hugging his hips, and when I reach toward the button to undo it, his hands capture mine to halt them from freeing the part of him tenting his jeans.
Our eyes meet, his blazing with a fire that I’m sure mine mirror before he slowly shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Releasing me, his hands move to the gray knit sweater dress hitched at my hips before looking at me for silent permission to take it off. All I can manage to do is nod, arching up as he drags it up my body and over my head before disposing of it somewhere on the floor. First, his eyes roam over my body, taking his time as the dark orbs linger over my chest where my small breasts are pushed up in a soft pink bra. If he peels off the leggings anytime soon, he’ll see the matching silk panties. Next, his gaze moves over the soft peak of my stomach, not totally flat but not overly rounded despite the amount of treats I eat and lack of exercise I do, and if he looks closely, he’ll see stretch marks from the way my body changed as I got older. No longer is my frame lean and slim like it was as a teenager but curved with a mature definition that gives me a womanly shape I always wanted since the day puberty graced me with its presence as a pre-teen.
I’ve never been ashamed of my body or hated any piece of it, no matter my weight fluctuations or opinions from other people. And there’d been plenty over the years that I didn’t like thinking about. This body has gotten me through a lot, and I’d never look at it in any way that showed my disrespect for it pulling me along, even when I felt like nothing but a shell of a woman.
The way it’s being studied now as rough, callused hands move down my bare sides tracing the curve of my torso tells me that he appreciates it as much as I do, maybe even more.
“Beautiful, Stevie.” He leans forward and presses a kiss above my belly button. Then another below it, before moving upward until his lips canvas the valley between my breasts. His fingers hook in the straps of my bra, lowering them and then reaching behind me to undo the hook with an easy flick. Maybe I should be hesitant over his skilled hands, and deep down, the nerves are bubbling, but there’s too much hunger for his attention that overpowers the fact I have little experience in comparison.
With my bra disposed of and breasts exposed, the cool air of my bedroom pebbles my nipples. His hands move over the peaks, flicking the hardened buds and making me moan and arch into his touch. His mouth covers one while his fingers play with its sister. I instantly wrap my legs around his waist and arms around his neck. At the same time, he teases, tweaks, and sucks me into his mouth until I’m trying to find the friction I need by rubbing my pelvis against his.
One of my hands cups the back of his head, feeling the grown in stubble of his jaw scrape along my skin as he switches breasts, paying attention to the other.
His “so fucking beautiful” and “so sweet, baby” and “so mine” leaves me undone as he stops focusing on my breasts and moves his hands to the elastic of my leggings. I help him peel them off, my panties coming along with them until I’m completely bare to him, his body towering over mine and dominating every inch of my space as his hungry eyes eat up the length of me stretched out beneath him.
I’ve never had a man speechless over my body before, but the way his lips part and close as he takes me in, then part again without one single sound coming out, builds my confidence enough to sit up and kiss his throat, the underside of his jaw, and trail my hands up the coarse hair on his chest, curling over his shoulders, before finally meeting his lips again to put them to good use.
Whatever the next level above beautiful is, is what Fletcher is making me feel as his hands wrap around my waist and hold me into his body as we slowly fall backward until we’re wrapped around each other, lips hungry, hands hungrier, and feeling every inch of skin until I finally get his jeans undone and down his thighs until there’s nothing but tight black boxer briefs between us.
“I want you so bad, baby,” he groans, rubbing his cock against my inner thigh. “Feel that? Feel how fucking hard you make me? It hurts. That’s how bad I need to be inside you.”
His words rack shivers down my spine until they become a pool of wetness between my legs that I want nothing more than for him to touch and explore. He doesn’t hesitate before his fingertips dance along my torso and abdomen until they land just above the lips soaked in arousal. It’s all for him. If he cares that I’m not completely bare, he doesn’t let on as he slips one of those long fingers along the trimmed curls and drags it along the seam of where I’m tempted to beg him to be.
As if he reads my mind, he presses a soft kiss against my lips the same time the pad of his thumb works the button of nerves that sparks instant shockwaves through my entire body. Then, using slow, careful precision to work me up, I pant out a string of incoherent words and mix in his name to coax him to move faster as I become wetter from the way his tongue twists with mine and his teeth bite into my bottom lip. Finally, his finger traces the entrance that’s so wet it slides right in, followed by a second.
“God, Stevie,” he says against my neck as he trails kisses down my body. He nips, sucks, kisses, and licks from my mouth to my lower abdomen, stopping right above where his hand and fingers are working me up, up, up, until my toes curl and hips lift to get more.
Deeper.
Faster.
Harder.
All things I think I tell him.
And when his mouth meets where his fingers were only moments before, it takes me no time at all to explode until I see stars. My eyes squeeze closed as my body arches and quakes through the intense orgasm that I feel all the way in my fingertips as I grip the blanket and sheets on either side of my body. Through it all, Fletcher sucks my clit and trails his tongue down until I’m clenching him as I come down from a high that I don’t think I’ve ever had so brutally before.
“Please,” I whisper, voice shaky and unfamiliar to my own ears. There’d been a handful of times in the past when I’d begged for more, but nothing like the intense need for it to happen as I want it to right now.
When his boxer briefs come off and the thick, hot cock bobs against my stomach once freed, I can’t help myself. One of my hands wraps around the girth and gives it one stroke before Fletcher’s head tips back, and a primal noise escapes him. Flushed from his reaction, I do it again.
Only the pleasure on his face becomes something I want more of because I want to be greedy for once. So, I slide forward and suck the tip of him in my mouth and taste the saltiness of his precum. My palms find his thighs and feel them shake under my touch as I suck him deeper, my mouth taking on the hard length of him until one of his hands is in my hair, threading through the strands, and tightening.
“Not going to last long if you keep doing that,” he groans, but he doesn’t pull me away as I continue bobbing over him, using my tongue to flatten against the underside of his cock until the fingers in my hair grip me to the point my skull stings. “Fuck. Honey, I want to take this slow, but I don’t think I can. Stop so I can fuck you. I need…” His words get lost in the sensation as I lightly drag my teeth over him.
I give him one last suck before drawing back and looking up at him, shyness in my eyes, and meet the fire burning in his. If I thought the man was gorgeous before, nothing compares to the sexed-up, alpha version.
“Lie back, legs open,” he all but growls, the tone of voice one I’ve never heard him use before. Not on me and not on the men on base he used to boss around. It was hotter, demanding, and I obey as he settles between my legs.
It’s when I feel the hot head of him settle at my entrance and slowly, slowly push in that I tighten up. I don’t know why, necessarily, because there’s no question that I want this. Badly. I need it—Fletcher. His touches and kisses and love.
And that…that four-letter word is probably what’s making my body want to refuse him right now. Fear. Of what this means and what’s to come. The things we haven’t said or talked about even though we should have.
I always had a plan.
Knew what to expect.
But now…
“Stevie,” he murmurs, stopping and using his hand to brush hair out of my face sensing my sudden hesitation. “I can stop. We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I croak, cutting him off and palming my face to hide the heat that must be coloring it red. I shake my head and suck in a breath as I wiggle my hips and feel him twitch from where he’s partially seated inside of me. “I want to, Fletcher. I do. I’m just…I don’t know. I can’t turn my thoughts off, and it’s ruining this.”
“Hey.” The word is so soft I almost miss it. He peels my hands away from my face and makes me look at him, his eyes the same gentleness of his tone. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I swallow.
I can’t.
I can’t tell him that I’m thinking about one of the first moments I ever felt…shame. Shame in bed with the man I was with. And it’s not from the time I brought a stranger home from a bar and let him strip me and use me and get off without barely any memory of it.
It’s the time I was with Hunter, a man I absolutely should not be thinking about in this circumstance, when he made me feel like the confidence I had, the need for him I was trying to show him, was a joke.
Like it meant nothing.
Laughable.
I’d felt sexy. Wanted him to see me that way. And he’d crushed me—crushed what little piece of me I’d had left of us at that point. It was toward the end when I wanted nothing more than for our intimate moments to patch us up somehow and knew in that instance it never could.
It was early morning—I’d woken up before him, trailed my hands down his naked torso since he hated wearing shirts to bed, and stirred him awake using my fingers and lips. He’d groaned, and didn’t push me away, and something about the need I’d had deep inside me, not just for sex, but for more empowered me to look at him from where I was laying on my side beside him and say, “I’ve wanted you to fuck me so bad since last night.”
And Hunter, the man I’d been with for a decade, the man I’d been married to since nineteen, had laughed.
Not groaned with the same yearning.
Not encouraged it.
But laughed.
At me.
At that thread of something,I was holding onto so tightly, hoping it would mend us.
Instead, it snapped.
When my husband laughed at me, the thread frayed piece by piece until there was nothing left but emptiness and embarrassment.
I’m not sure when Fletcher pulled out or when his body moved to my side, still hovering using one of his arms to encase me in his scent and warmth. Still, when I force myself away from the memory, I look up at him with glassy eyes. I don’t know when I started crying either, but the lust on his face is long gone and now filled with worry.
“I ruined this,” I cry, turning my head away so he won’t see the tears that start streaming down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought I was ready, but I don’t think I am because I can’t stop thinking about the other moments I’ve done this and how bad I must have been and the things that happened and—”
“Stevie,” he tries stopping me.
“And now I’m talking about my ex-husband and thinking about him when I shouldn’t be thinking about any other man because I’m in bed with you means I’m a mess.” I roll out from under him, pulling my knees up and grabbing the blanket to cover my naked body. “I’m sorry, Fletcher,” I whisper again, squeezing my eyelids shut. “I’m so sorry.”
I feel the weight on the mattress behind me disappear. I think he’s getting dressed and leaving, something I wouldn’t blame him for, but I startle when he ends up kneeling in front of me, still nude and unabashed, as he puts those big hands on my arms.
“I need you to listen to me,” he says in a strong yet soft voice. “You never have to apologize to me for anything like this. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that we stop before you do something you regret. Understand? You’re not a mess, Stevie. I don’t ever want to hear you say that about yourself again. You’re trying to move on, and sex is not an easy part of that. I understand. I’m not going to pressure you. I told you before that I’ll wait however long you need until you’re really ready. And I don’t want you pretending you are for my sake or anybody else’s. Get what I’m saying?”
It’s hard to look him in the eyes when I give him a slow nod. “You need to know something. I…” My voice cuts off, the rasp and guilt thick in the words. “I was only ever with him until this one time I got drunk at a bar and…”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Did somebody hurt you? Force themselves on you?” His voice is no longer soft but murderous. “If somebody took advantage—”
“No, it wasn’t anything like that. I remember enough to know I’d been willing. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with the decision. I shouldn’t have done it. I cried for days after it happened. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. Bex had to see me breakdown over it, and she said something that helped me get past it, but I still think about how much I regret doing it. It’s not me. It never had been. Not that…that I’d know. Like I said, Hunter was the only person I’d ever been with before then.”
His jaw hardens, and his eyes look away.
I know it’s not right to have this conversation, to bring up the man I was married to or the other man I’d had a drunken fling with, considering what almost happened between me and him. But I know if I want this to work with Fletcher, it needs to be said. Out in the open, or else I’d feel too guilty and have another breakdown later on for keeping it a secret.
But Fletcher does what he always does because he’s a good man. The best one I’ve ever known, if I’m being honest with myself. “I’m sure as hell no saint, Stevie. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. Things we regret. But we can’t hold them over our heads or let them get to us. So, I’m glad you told me but know that I’d never judge you for anything you do.”
My nostrils flare, emotion threatening to come out any way it can. With sobs. Tears. Everything. “You’re too good to be true sometimes.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. When he shakes his head and squeezes my arms before dropping them, I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about. Where his head is at now that I spewed out my baggage. “Trust me, I have my faults. I’d hardly call myself anybody’s fantasy man.”
He’ll never take a compliment or accept that he’s exactly every woman’s fantasy. He’s either too blind or too humble. My money is on the latter.
Fletcher passes me my clothes, gives me his back to have privacy to change, and dresses simultaneously.
After we’re both covered again, I look at my bed, then back at the man who’s staring out the window at the lit-up street. “Can you stay? Not to… Just to sleep. If you want. If you’d prefer going home—”
“I’ll stay.”
He’ll stay.
He’ll stay.
He doesn’t take off his jeans again or his sweater. He simply peels off his black socks, folds them, and puts them on the floor beside the bed before laying back and opening an arm for me to settle next to him.
I take the invitation, curling my body against his and listening to his even heartbeat.
That’s how I fall asleep.
And how I wake up eight hours later.