I patted her hand, bringing her attention back to me. “We’ll get to all that, but before we do, can we talk about your car situation again?” Looking to Duane, he gave me a nod of agreement. “What kind of car would you like? Let’s start there.”
Her gaze sharpened. “I know how you boys operate. You’re not giving me a car.”
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Duane cautioned, his tone thoughtful, and sent me a furtive grin. “Really, you’d be doing us a favor by taking one off our hands.”
* * *
Shelly and I didn’t make it home until late.
The three of us—Duane, Claire, and I—talked in the carriage house for about an hour. She’d agreed to stick around until after the wedding was over, so we could spend time discussing what it meant, being related to each other.
We knew Claire, she’d been a presence in our lives since we could remember. So it wasn’t as if we needed to play one hundred questions to learn who she was, and who we were. But we made sure we had each other’s cell numbers, and that she could contact us anytime she needed anything.
She knew we had Ashley, who loved to mother us, but it was incredible how easily she stepped into the same role of big sister. In some respects, it surprised the hell out of me. In others, given how close she was to two of our brothers, it made perfect sense.
She . . . she fits.
Once Jethro and Sienna left and the crowd began to thin, Claire, Duane, Jess, Shelly, and I left for Hank’s McMansion on Bandit Lake. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go that wouldn’t be either awkward or too small.
No one, not even Duane, seemed surprised I had keys. Which made sense. Hank and I were best friends, after all. I decided to keep the news of Hank’s recklessness—signing the place over to me—to myself for the time being.
The house was fully equipped. Claire agreed to stay the night and spend Sunday with us. Jess and Duane took another of the rooms after I assured them that Hank wouldn’t mind, nor would he notice.
But I decided to take Shelly home. I knew she liked her own space—free of clutter, and her books with their blue spines. And we had Oliver, Laika, and Ivan to consider. She’d been quiet during most of the evening, but didn’t hesitate adding her thoughts to the discussion when Jess brought up art installations in Chicago and New York.
I’d been grateful to Jess, for picking topics she knew Shelly would be interested in. It really was too bad Jess and Duane were leaving so soon.
We pulled into Shelly’s drive well after midnight. The short trip home had been a quiet one, and I’d felt her eyes off and on, like she was debating something, or trying to work up the nerve to ask me a question.
When I turned off the engine, and our only company was the quiet night and each other, I turned to her and asked softly, “What’s going on?”
She shook her head, studying me. I couldn’t have been more than a shadow to her, maybe a silhouette, but I saw her. Not the color of her eyes, or her lips, or her dress, but I saw what mattered.
“What is it?” I reached out, cupping her face, tracing the pad of my thumb along her cheekbone and lips.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered, unbuckling her seatbelt and turning toward me. She leaned forward, searching for my mouth, her aim slightly off. Keeping my hand on her cheek, I guided her and she let me, a burst of heat radiating through my body as our lips met and mated. Hers soft—so soft—and hot as they teased mine.
Shelly trailed her fingers down the front of my shirt, untucking it when she came to my pants. As we kissed I felt her hands unbuckle my belt, unbutton my fly, unzip my pants.
I leaned my mouth away, searching her face in question. “Do you want to go inside?”
She shook her head, retaking my mouth, pushing her hand into my boxers and giving me a confident stroke. I released a ragged breath against her lips. She stroked me again.
“Lift your hips.”
I did. She pushed my pants and boxers down to my thighs, circling me again with her fingers.
“Shelly.” I was out of breath.
“Keep touching me.” She turned her head, sucking my thumb into her mouth and swirling the tip with her tongue while pumping me slowly.
Then she let go and I felt the loss of her touch everywhere. Yet, she didn’t withdraw. She shifted her weight, bringing her knees to the seat and hiking up her dress. In the next moment, she’d straddled my lap, rubbed her body against mine and guided me inside.
Holyfuckingshit. This will never get old.
We both breathed out on a rush, her forehead coming to mine.
“Fuck, Shelly. So good.”
“Mmm,” was her mumbled reply, which made me smile.
My hand slid to her neck, curling around her shoulder. I needed purchase, something to hold. Then Shelly tilted her hips just so, a gentle torment, a cruel indulgence.
I couldn’t move, not how I wanted. She was in control of our pace and apparently she wanted to go slow. Her rolling back . . . and forth was a special kind of torture. I needed more, more of her skin. Trailing the back of my fingers to her chest, I brushed my knuckles against the fabric over her tight nipple.
Her fingers shifted from my shoulders to the buttons of her dress, their movements jerky and urgent even as she maintained her agonizingly deliberate rhythm.
I grabbed her hands, bringing them to the headrest behind me. Setting to work on her buttons, I slipped them open at the same unhurried pace she employed.
“Faster,” she demanded.
My jaw was clenched against the effort of keeping still, of letting her ride me.
The strain of not taking over, rolling her onto her back and driving into her like I wanted—like I needed—was akin to walking a tightrope between heaven and hell. My legs burned. The base of my spine ached.
“Please.” She came down harder, her hips jerking.
I’d just unfastened the button at her stomach when she grabbed the edges of the fabric and tugged roughly. She unhooked her bra in the front, tore it open, grabbed my hands, and brought them to her breasts.
Her breath hitched, her eyes closed, and her face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and anguish.
“I love you.” She confessed on a breath, “I—”
I captured the rest of her words with a kiss, unable to help myself. And then, as I tugged her nipples, a sharp sound of gratification wrenched from her throat. I captured that too, wanting it all.
She was coming. Hard. Her body bowed, her short nails digging into my hands where she held them. I felt it—every spasm, every tremor—and the back of my throat burned with the need to take over.
“Beau,” gasping for breath, her forehead fell to my shoulder, “That was—”
With one frenzied movement, I lifted her from my lap to the bench seat beside me, tugging her legs so she was lying down, and spreading her wide, ripping her flimsy lace underwear from her body in the process.
“We’re not done.” I climbed on top, one knee on the seat, my other leg braced on nothing. I buried my face in her breasts, licking and biting and tasting each inch. Her fingers anchored into the back of my head and she arched her back.