She reached up and unbuttoned her shirt slowly and I lowered my mouth to one nipple, licking it gently as she arched and moaned, threading her fingers through my hair and gripping my head. “Yes,” she panted. Oh, Jesus. I pressed my erection into the soft place between her legs and shuddered with the pleasure. It felt so fucking wonderful and utterly torturous.
My body broke out in a sweat and my heart pounded in my ears, the whooshing sound increasing the intimacy of the small space we were in. It was only her and me and no one else in the entire world. My face was pressed against her skin, her scent filling my nostrils, her taste sweet on my tongue, my throbbing shaft cradled between her open legs and the pleasure was so overwhelming— Three sharp raps snapped me out of the sexual fog. Shit. We both froze, my wide eyes staring into hers in the dim light of the truck cab. I looked over my shoulder and a bright light suddenly came on, causing me to squint and turn, bringing my arm up in front of my eyes.
Behind me, I heard Annalia moving, the rustling of clothing and her harsh breathing.
Oh fuck, it was the police. Good Lord.
I glanced back at Annalia and saw she was decent. I offered her a regretful look as she sat up and then I opened the door to the cab. The light was still in my face, but it quickly lowered.
“Will you step out of the vehicle, sir?” came a female voice.
For fuck’s sake. I was still hard.
I took one long, deep breath, willing my body to relax and then stepped out of the truck. I recognized the female officer, had seen her around Linmoor. The police force was small and mostly everyone knew the cops who worked there.
“Officer Lief.”
She squinted at me. “Preston Sawyer, is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She had the flashlight pointing upward so it wasn’t in my eyes but cast light over the two of us. She leaned around me and peered into the truck and then leaned back. “Well now, from what I recall, you have a big farmhouse out on that property of yours.”
I cleared my throat. “It’s not overly big—”
“There a bedroom in that house?”
“Yes, ma’am. Several.”
“Uh-huh. I suggest you use one of them. Public indecency is a misdemeanor, punishable by jail time and a fine. You wouldn’t want to get arrested for that, now would you?”
“No, ma’am.” I tried to look repentant, but I swore she was trying not to laugh. Her lip kept tipping upward and shaking slightly as if she was forcing it back down with effort.
She looked around me again. “That your girlfriend?”
“Yes. And the mother of my son. And, uh, I hope my wife. Someday very soon.”
She nodded. “Uh-huh. Sounds like you did things a bit backwards.” Understatement of the year.
“Umm, yes, ma’am.”
“Well, you go on home now. And don’t let me catch you up here again, unless all your clothes are on.” I grimaced and noticed another small quirk of her lip before her face became stern again.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned and went back to the police cruiser parked a little ways away—the one I hadn’t even heard arrive—and got inside. I climbed back into the truck and started the ignition, staring ahead for a moment before glancing at Lia. She was looking straight ahead too, biting her lip, and obviously trying not to laugh.
A small chuckle escaped my throat, and she looked at me and we both cracked up. I leaned my head back on the seat, getting control of my hilarity and pulling my seatbelt on.
Lia did the same, and as we drove down the hill and out of the park, she turned to me, a smile on her lips. “Your girlfriend?”
I grabbed her hand. “Yes. Is that . . . I mean, will you?”
“Go steady with you?” She grinned.
“Yeah.”
She leaned her head back on the seat, too, looking so pretty, all I wanted to do was stare at her, but I was driving so I forced my eyes back on the road. “Yes, Preston. I’ll go steady with you.” She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I laughed. I’d loved starting over, but maybe we needed to speed things up just a little bit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Annalia
“It smells incredible in here already.”
“Oh, thank you, mi amor. Will you grab me another large spoon?” Rosa asked, shooting me a sweet smile.
The Sawyer kitchen was bustling with activity, the savory smell of grilled chicken and pork combined with the spicy richness of red chili sauce filling the air, even though the windows were wide open to provide a cooling breeze to the room.
Corn husks soaked in water in the two farmhouse sinks and several Dutch ovens with steamer baskets were on stove burners, awaiting the assembled tamales.
Rosa was at the helm, watching over the cooking meat and stirring the sauce, while her parents, Juan (Abuelo himself) and Lupe, sat in chairs near the window. They’d all arrived only an hour before and set up operation.
My mother had come with me, too, even though I’d had to practically drag her out by force. But I had taken Rosa’s advice to heart—my mother needed community. I couldn’t force it forever, but I could lead her to it and hope it would feel good enough, that she’d seek it out herself at some point. She wasn’t even forty years old.
My mother and I had never been close, but I didn’t want to see her withering away in depression. I’d experienced some of that myself and knew the hopeless misery of it. She sat alone at the far end of the table, but I watched her eyes move from one person to another as they spoke Spanish, and I thought I’d even seen a small smile twitch her lips once or twice.
How isolating it must be, not understanding the language spoken around you for years and years. Like being in your own lonely bubble. I’d always tried to bridge the gap, but it hadn’t been enough, and I had been ashamed of that. But I thought now that it had been too big a job for one person—one small girl—and one who felt unloved at that.
In a sense my mama was right. It had been a devil who had placed me in her womb. Such horrific trauma to experience a husband’s death and then to be raped—an unthinkable violation first of the soul and then of the body. She had been so alone, so bereft, so isolated. In her mind, I was the eyes, hands, and product of the devil. Maybe she had needed something to hold on to—anything, even enmity—in order to stay sane. Finally, it had come to define her. But it no longer defined me. Standing there in the middle of a bustling, fragrant kitchen, I realized that I, too, had experienced a tiny semblance of that vulnerable, aching loneliness and desperation and, though she had hurt me, I could forgive her. It may never bring reconciliation between us, but my heart could know peace.
Preston came downstairs and was introduced to everyone, and they all gave him warm welcomes, fawning over how handsome he was and how much Hudson looked like him in rapidly spoken Spanish that I knew he understood little, if any, of. They switched to English when I told them he didn’t speak Spanish, but they spoke just as quickly and with just as much enthusiasm in any language and Preston continued to look slightly unbalanced.