Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2) (30 page)

“Uh huh.” Eyes back on the screen. This is so much fuel for me to tease him about later, I just let it go.

It’s going to rain. Crossing the backyard, the rain sends its scent ahead of the storm, and the air is heavy with it, caressing my face like warm velvet. The sun is setting, painting the horizon with one last explosion of color, the last vibrant glimpse of daylight.

Mama’s wind chimes still hang over the work shed door, and the slight breeze stirs them to sing a prelude for the storm. The door falls open, squeaking under my hand. Out of habit I thought I’d forgotten, my hand reaches blindly to the wall on my left, finding the light switch that doesn’t even have a faceplate anymore. The stale, unstirred air confirms that no one’s been here for a long time. I think everyone knew how special this place was to Mama, what a solace it proved to be, and after she was gone, just let it be.

The small mattress in the corner reminds me that I was her exception, the only one who ever joined her. Some days after school and dance practice and dinner and dishes, I’d come out here to watch her make things while I did my homework. The memory is so clear I almost see the younger version of myself, back pressed to the wall, legs crossed on the thin mattress, Trapper Keeper balanced in my lap, number two pencil in hand, one long braid hanging over my shoulder. We didn’t even talk much. She knew I needed to get my work done, and I suppose I knew she needed the quiet to think. I rarely asked her about what.

The scents of Mama’s hobbies collide, fragrant and varied, trapped in the unstirred air of this room all these months. I venture over to the shelves, still neatly lined with Ball jars, vivid with the colors of her fruits and vegetables. I kick off my shoes like this is holy ground and pick up a jar of her strawberry preserves. I was in the eighth grade when she won the blue ribbon for her preserves at the county fair. I was ten when she started making soap, selling it at the diner to make extra money to cover my ballet class.

Were these just hobbies? Things on the side to make extra money? Rituals that kept something sweet or fresh always on our table? There was a sadness that hung around Mama when she was out here that she rarely showed beyond that door. I don’t know if it was a privilege or a burden that I saw it when I was here, diagramming sentences and learning about the Civil War.

Did she come in here to ponder what my father took from her? What she’d lost? Mama always sacrificed for my improbable dreams. Not many actually make it the way I have, the way I am, but Mama always believed I would be a star. Her dreams, in comparison, were so modest. Be a good wife and mother. Make a home. Have a happy marriage. The irony of my dreams, so farfetched coming true, and her simple hopes being crushed doesn’t escape me.

I pull down a jar of pear preserves. Strawberry won the ribbon, but pear was always my favorite. The Ball jar top untwists easily under my fist, the little lid popping back to free the scent of pears. I dip one finger into the sticky mixture, tasting the nostalgia of early mornings, biscuits smeared with preserves. Maybe it’s been so long, or maybe this was a bad batch, but it leaves something slightly bitter on my tongue. Was it always there? Did I never notice? Did Mama stuff the isolation, the unhealed pain, the unrelenting loneliness into these Ball jars so that she could smile for the world beyond this shed? Is this where all her hurt went? Was I too young and self-absorbed to detect it before?

The wind chimes tinkle and the door opens, bringing no light now that the sun has set. I don’t know how long I’ve been out here, but the frown on Rhyson’s face tells me it may have been too long.

“You okay out here, Pep?” He leans a shoulder into the door, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m fine.”

I prop a hip against the worktable, watching his confident stride toward me. What must it be like to be Rhyson? So sure. So strong. I can’t take my eyes off him, and he’s not even trying to seduce me. As soon as he’s close enough, I’m reaching for him, my arms slipping around his waist, my head dropping to his chest.

“You finished your soap operas, I presume?”

“You do not get to tease me about that.” A chuckle vibrates in his chest, rumbling against my cheek through his t-shirt. “Aunt Ruthie and I were bonding.”

“Over soap operas?” I lean back, smiling at my beautiful man.

“Whatever it takes.” He reaches down to drop a kiss on my lips, the smile fading. “Bristol just called.”

My smile fades, too. Work. LA. Real life. Scandal. Secrets. Crack the door and it all floods in.

“And?” The question lands on his chest since I won’t lift my head to look at him.

“I promised Kilimanjaro I’d meet with them face to face when they came to LA to talk about a deal with Prodigy.” He cups my neck, caressing the skin under my hair. “They arrive tomorrow and leave the next day.”

“Of course you should go.” It’s so stupid to have tears in my eyes. I blink several times until they dry up, coughing a little to cover the tremble in my voice.

“You’re coughing.” His hand slips to the small of my back. “Should you be out here at night?”

“Rhys, I’m fine. I just coughed. I . . . it’s okay.” I run my thumb over the fullness of his bottom lip. “I’m fine. I want you to go back to LA. Kilimanjaro will be great on Prodigy, and I don’t want you to lose them.”

“I’ll be back in a couple days.”

“You don’t have to.” I lower my eyes to my toes, feet bare on the little rope rug Mama placed at the work table.

“I had a surprise getaway booked for us after the tour.” He smiles at the shocked expression I know is all over my face. “Yep, but those plans were foiled.”

“No one says foiled,” I say absently, still processing the vacation I missed. “Where were we going?”

“I still have it tucked away, so I’m not telling you. I’ll surprise you with it when you least expect it. Just you and me.”

He leans down to brush his lips over mine. When he would pull back, I grip his neck, deepening the kiss, my tongue insisting, searching his mouth. The thought of losing him for even just a few days after so long without him squishes my heart in my chest. I fist his thick hair, my hands wandering down to squeeze his ass.

“Okay, Pep.” His breath comes heavy, and he inserts a bit of space between us, but his cock bridges the short distance to poke my stomach. “Maybe we should get back to the house.”

“Why?” My husky question hovers between us, our eyes locked, my desire as palpable as a touch. I haven’t had him in over a month, and I know he thinks we shouldn’t here at Aunt Ruthie’s, but we should. I lift the t-shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. Rhyson’s eyes fix on my simple black bra, on my nipples poking against the silk, turgid and begging for his lips and tongue.

“Pep, I think—”

“Technically, out here we aren’t under Aunt Ruthie’s roof.”

I slip one strap off my shoulder and then the other, undoing the hook at my back so it falls away, exposing my breasts to the air.

“Fuck, Pep.” His words shake in the stillness.

“Make love to me, Rhys.”

“You’re exhausted. You’re just getting over pneumonia.” He swallows, his eyes ignoring the excuses and crawling over my breasts. “You . . .”

His words trail off as I unsnap my jeans, urging them over my hips and down my legs until only my black lace panties remain.

“I won’t break.” I grin up at him, feeling a little wicked on the cusp of screwing my boyfriend in the room where I did my high school homework. “But you can try.”

I dip one finger into the jar of preserves, scooping up the thick juice. I reach up to paint his lips with it. Before he can lick it off, I tilt up on my toes, lashing away the sweetness with my tongue, rubbing my bare nipples into his chest. He groans, hands spanning my back to draw me closer. The hunger, delayed and put off by the tour and by my sickness, roars to the surface of our kiss. His palms skid over the small of my back and into my panties to cup my butt, skin to skin. Pear-sweet words fall from his lips to mine.

“Aunt Ruthie—”

“Isn’t thinking about us when her soaps are on.” I grip his dick through his jeans.

“Shit, Pep.” He drops his head until our temples rest against each other. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.” I unsnap his jeans, slipping my hands into his briefs to touch him, cupping his balls and pulling on him. My knees almost buckle at the warm, silky strength in my hands. “I need you.”

I need him pushing between my legs, rushing hot and liquid inside of me. I need his lips closing around me, sucking, licking, biting, tasting me like I’m as sweet as these preserves. Mostly I need him to chase away the half-sad memory of my mama in this shed. To kiss away the bitterness of her loneliness. The last traces of uncertainty remain on his face, and I’m determined to wipe them away.

I dip my fingers into the preserves jar again, eyes tangled with his as I smear the gooey thickness over my nipples. Rhyson’s eyes, mist grey, go dark and hot, prickling my skin with heat.

“That’s just not fair,” he breathes, hoisting me by my waist up onto the wooden table.

His head lowers, lips closing over my breast until it disappears in his mouth, worshipping each nipple and lingering to suckle and bite. I grip the edge of the table behind me, want splintering right down my middle and spreading my thighs, a blatant invitation for him to take what unequivocally belongs to him. He presses his eyes tightly closed, one hand at my back, pushing my breasts up and into his mouth. I’m licked clean of the preserves, but he can’t stop. I see it all over his face, hear it in the compulsive suckle, feel it in the rough tug of his lips over my breast. He moans like it hurts, but I see such deep pleasure on his face it pounds my heart and snatches my breath.

“The mattress.” The words labor past my lips, barely making it. “Let’s go to the mattress.”

Rhyson looks up for just a moment, his dark eyes wandering to the wall where the mattress waits. He walks us there, my legs clenched around his waist.

“Aunt Ruthie’s quilts are on the top shelf.” I nibble at his bottom lip.

He sets me on my feet to grab a quilt, which I spread the over the mattress, feeling his eyes burning over my body in just my tiny panties. He swallows, his voice coming out rough in the quiet room.

“Are you sure, Pep? Just a few days ago you needed help to the bathroom. If I hurt you—”

“You won’t. I’m fine.” I grab his hand and squeeze so he feels my need. “I want you, Rhys. It’s been so long.”

“Damn right it has, but I can wait.” His eyes search my face, looking for any sign that I’m not well, not ready. “If I need to, I can wait.”

“But I can’t.” I lie down on the mattress, diving my fingers into my panties, emboldened by the desire he keeps trying to dam back. “I can’t wait, Rhys.”

I rub myself, my breath catching at the first touch. Rhyson’s eyes fix on my fingers, back and forthing under the silk. I’m hot and wet and slick and swollen, every fire-tipped stroke tantalizing my heart right out of my chest. It’s so good. So much better with him watching, but it’s not him. Not his touch.

He drops down to join me. With his eyes fixed on my fingers, I take his hand, slowly pushing it beneath the black lace, inviting him to join me. He swears so softly it barely reaches my ears, but he meshes our fingers, the rough calluses on his fingertips a sweet abrasion over my clit.

I haven’t been with many men, and I’ve never been this bold with anyone else. I may still hold onto a few secrets, things I’m not ready for Rhyson to know, but there are no secrets between our bodies. He knows every spot that sets me on fire. He knows that when he starts with one finger, it makes me gasp. That when he adds another, I have to bite my lip to stifle a scream. When he strokes me with his thumb and thrusts with his fingers, it’s not long before I . . .

“Ahhh!” My back curves, heels digging into the mattress, the first orgasm stretching me taut as a wire. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Rhyson.”

“I could watch you come all day, Pep.” He says it against my neck, scattering kisses over my shoulders, sucking my nipples, instigating another wave that takes me under, gasping, drowning, dying a little every time. Then resurfacing, coming back to life.

“Gimme your hand,” he says. I offer him the hand that’s clenched around a fistful of mattress. “The other hand.”

His eyes slide down my body to where my hand lies just beyond my black panties, fingers still wet and shiny. Watching me watching him, he takes my fingers into his mouth, rolling his tongue over them until they’re licked clean. He slides down my body, pushing my knee, gripping the back of my thigh and dipping his head between my legs, mouthing me through the panties before he coaxes them aside and then down and then off. Every lash of his tongue pushes me over that precipice again. My hands are buried past the knuckle in his thick hair. My legs flop open, a silent plea for him to take as much as he wants. And though it’s so good my eyes roll back in my head, none of it is enough. None of it satisfies that longing at the very bottom of me that cries out to be filled.

“I need you, Rhys.” Through barely open eyes I watch him. “
You
, baby.”

I taste myself in his kiss before he turns me onto my side, nudging my knee up just a little bit. He’s hot and hard behind me, an urgent press, but so gentle, so careful with me, guiding my thigh with his, angling me to his satisfaction before pushing in, a slow, sure thrust. The moment he fills me, my face twists with the pleasure of it. He grips my hip with one hand, the other reaching around, tilting my head up for a kiss. His hand wanders from my hip to my breast, thieving my breath. The whoosh of air from my mouth breaks our kiss. I turn my head into the pillow as he pumps into me from behind, a silent scream wrenched from me.

“Don’t stop. Rhys, baby, don’t stop,” I pant into the pillow.

“What
is
this?” he breathes into my neck. “It’s never been like this with anyone, Pep. I promise you that. Never.”

“I know.” I bite my lip to keep from crying out, even though we’re alone out here. “I know.”

“I need to see you.” He flips me onto my back and plunges back in, almost too much, but my body stretches around him, eager and pliant. “Let me see you.”