Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 32

THIRTY-TWO

WYATT

The way she’s looking at me, it’s everything I’ve spent the last twelve years waiting for. My cock jerks inside of her at the recognition of that particular expression and the sentiment behind it, and I pull out so I don’t blow already.

Spent seven years building this house, another four wishing it had her in it. Not gonna fuck up my first night with her in here with a rookie move like that.

But this time between us is different, and I’m not the only one who knows it. It’s not just her eyes that are softer, I can feel it in every kiss, every time her hips move to meet mine. This isn’t just fucking anymore, if it ever was.

“Sit up,” I tell her, and I pull her forward, onto my lap as I sit down, legs extended.

We work together to get her situated on top of me, legs wrapped around my back, and then she’s sliding down my cock, such a tight fit that early tremors of pleasure hit me, and I tell them to fuck off.

Rory wraps her arms around my neck, bracing herself on my shoulders with a groan, and I wrap my hands around her waist. We lift her and let her drop back down slowly a couple of times to adjust to the position, the feel of our bodies working together in this new angle. She’s so worked up, her pussy is bright pink and so fucking hot to watch as she slides down my dick again. This time, she takes me all the way, sinking down to the base, and she gasps, humming in satisfaction when I hit that spot that’s so deep inside her.

I watch her for a few thrusts, her cheeks flushed like that, silky brown hair thrown back in a ponytail. I bring my hands down to her hips and keep her steady as she rotates her pelvis, testing out some moves we haven’t gotten to try together. She might be turning me into a believer of yoga if that’s what it’s done for her flexibility. Plus, the way her pussy is gripping me right now, it’s like her hand is squeezing me, pumping me, trying to coax the cum out of me. I’m not gonna stand a chance at making this last if she keeps this up.

One hand stays on her hip, gripping her tightly while the other skims over her side and climbs up her back, taking hold of her ponytail and wrapping it around my fist once, then twice, and tugging. Her head falls back with a moan, and my mouth closes over her throat, working my way up to her ear and back down to her nipple, giving it some overdue attention with lips, tongue, and teeth.

She starts to grind on me faster, and I feel it brewing for both of us. I slide my hands down her body until they’re gripping her ass cheeks, and I pull on them, spreading her for me. Her eyes widen when I do, and I watch, reading her better than she knows herself when it comes to what she needs from me, at least on a physical level. Here’s hoping my confession earlier wasn’t too much too soon, and I didn’t scare her away again.

I bring this back to a physical connection, where I know she needs me most. Our eyes stay on one another’s as one hand has a firm grasp on one cheek, and a finger on the other comes out to play. My finger rims her asshole, and she bucks, moaning, clenching everywhere . I press against the puckered flesh, just pressure, not breaching the ring just yet, and her noises get louder.

“You gonna let me play with you soon?” I ask against her lips, then kiss her.

She nods against my mouth, not breaking the kiss, and I smile against her flesh.

“There’s a lot I wanna do with you, Ror,” I tell her, bringing my hands back to her front. My clean hand comes back to pinch her nipple, pull on it, roll it in the way that sends her skyrocketing.

“Do it,” she pleads.

“I’m gonna,” I promise her. “If you stay.”

That same hand slides down her stomach, over her pussy and I flick her clit. Her cunt clenches around my length, and I smirk up at her, before circling the swollen nub with my thumb, watching her react to every change in pressure, angle, and pattern I use on her.

It doesn’t take long to find what’s going to do the job for the third time tonight, and I start talking to her as her pleasure builds and she chases that high, bouncing on my lap. “I’ll do anything you want me to, Rory. You spend all day fantasizing, you come home to me, and I’ll make it happen. You want me to worship you, disrespect you, I’ll fucking do it. That dirty mind gets any ideas in it at all, you bring them to me, okay? You need me to fuck you like I hate you, I can do that. But know that just you is enough for me.”

Rory’s eyes flutter shut on a moan, but then she opens them again, heavy lidded stare on mine. “Wyatt?” Her breathing is labored, and it looks like it’s taking effort to keep her eyes open against the pleasure that’s taking over her system right now.

“Yeah, Rory?”

“I’ve never not loved you too.”

And would you look at that, looks like my mouth isn’t the only one that knows how to spit out what the other one needs to finish.

My balls tighten, the high of release coursing through my veins as she bears down on me, walls tightening as we come together, bodies flush, both naked hearts and truths bared.

My orgasm tears through me, shot after shot of hot cum leaving me, and her grade A pussy sucks it all out of me as she shudders, breaking. I feel her heels dig into my ass, toes curled into my back as her whole body stiffens with the assault of her own.

We come down slowly, not rushing to break apart, but when we finally do I make her stay in bed while I run some warm water and bring a cloth back to clean her up with.

I was right, her cunt looks even better like this.

A sight I’ll never get tired of, this girl in the bed that was always meant to be ours, spent, both of our releases leaking out of her, sweat and satisfaction all over that perfect face.

Her, in this house at all, really. It was always meant to have her in it.

We spend the evening doing the simple shit. I heated up a late dinner for us, warmed some cider for her so she could keep watching the first snowfall from that window of hers. It’s too early for the snow to stick to the ground, but she ate up watching those flakes drift down while it lasted.

At one point we made it back to the bedroom, where I toyed with her clit lazily until her back bowed, her legs shook, and my hand was soaked. Then she grabbed that hand, wrapped it around my cock, and kept her own hand circled around my wrist. She jerked me off with my own fucking hand, wet with her release, all under her control. It was slow, unhurried, unlike anything I’ve done with anyone else, and she kept it going until I covered her stomach in cum. What we did after that, I’ll keep between her and me.

We’ve since brushed our teeth (she used a spare toothbrush that’s been here since I moved in), plugged in our phones (apparently she never leaves home without her charger, the most Rory shit I ever heard), set alarms for the morning, and are now savoring one another’s company as we cuddle in bed.

“I can’t believe you did it. You built it,” she says, a bit of disbelief in that voice and on that flawless face.

“Yeah, I still can’t believe it some days, and it’s been done for four years now.” A small smile tugs up the corner of my mouth, and one of my hands reaches out to tuck some hair behind her ear.

“Although,” she says thoughtfully. “I guess it’s my fault one part of that dream can’t ever come true.”

“Which part?”

“The little boy who’s supposed to be playing in that yard out there. Axle.” The smile she returns is sad, but it doesn’t need to be.

I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell her the rest.

“Actually …” I start.

Her eyes meet mine.

“When I went for the procedure, they encouraged me to save a sample in case I ever changed my mind.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, waiting for me to say more before she lets hope sink in.

“I thought if there was any chance you’d come back, any chance of that future we wanted together … I had to do it. And later that year I started building this place.” I gesture with my eyes to the roof above us. “Just in case.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” She’s practically vibrating with apprehension.

“You’re telling me you can devour a two-hundred-page document written in legalese and know every instance of when to use who and whom, or whereby and henceforth, but you can’t understand when I’m telling you I have some of my sperm frozen?”

“Grady!” It’s somewhere between a squeal and a reproach.

“We have options, Hellcat,” I tell her, bringing one of her hands to my mouth and kissing her knuckles. “If you want them. That’s what I’m saying.”

Some time later we’re drifting off in the dark room, her tucked into my side, head nestled beneath my chin, tickling me with strands of loose hair that dive for my nose with every inhale, and those small hands on my chest.

“Rory?” I ask.

“Yes?” she says sleepily.

“I never got the chance to ask you last time, but I’m asking you this time. Stay. Stay with me. Or ask me to go with you. Just don’t leave me again.”

Her head nods against my chest, but before I can get a verbal response from her, I hear those tiny noises she makes that mean she’s asleep.

The alarm goes off, and for once it pulls up one side of my mouth a fraction of an inch. Waking up with Rory is how I wanna start every morning. A reason to open my eyes. A reason to come home at night, instead of hide out at the bar.

I fumble around the nightstand, reaching for the phone, and find the drawer is open. Probably forgot to close it after grabbing the lube at some point last night. Get the alarm silenced and reach out with the other arm to stroke whatever I can reach of Rory, wake her up gently, and pull her in close before we have to get up.

My hand finds nothing but covers and sheets. This bed has exactly as many people in it now as it has every other morning I’ve woken up in it. Just me and the ghost of the girl who always haunts me in it.

Eyes popping open I sit up and throw my legs over the side of the bed, scrub my face.

“Rory?” I call out, voice starting to shake.

Last time I woke up without her she was gone for good. Waking up alone that morning was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s probably in the kitchen this time, starting her coffee with the expensive beans I’ve kept here for three months, but it’s a little too similar for me to feel comfortable.

That’s probably why my heart pounds as my feet slap on the wooden floors when I walk from the primary bedroom to the kitchen. She’s not there, but I can’t say there’s no sign of her.

A familiar piece of paper is on the counter, and when I recognize it, that’s when the full-body tremors start.

I pick it up, wrinkled and ruffled with time, and force my eyes to read it once more even though I could recite it word for word a hundred years from now. The lines are burned into my soul. The hand holding the paper shaking doesn’t make it easier, but I already know what it says.

Wyatt,

There’s no easy way to say this. There’s no way to make this suck less. If I don’t go now, I never will. I hope you find a way to be happy in the Heights, but I need to go.

I’m so sorry.

Rory

This can’t be happening again.

I run back to my nightstand, searching the drawer for what I know I won’t find. The lube was returned, but the note is (obviously) missing.

I drop onto the bed, palms pressed into my eyes, and try to run through the likely outcomes. Try not to jump to conclusions.

Check the cameras , the voice of reason says.

Tap to pull up the app I use to monitor my security cameras on the perimeter of the house. Normally don’t see anything other than deer or the occasional black bear, now I’m hoping to spot a Hellcat.

Scroll through the activity log, the recordings that were triggered by motion sensors, and sure enough, there’s one from four-thirty in the morning. Hold my breath as I click on it and wait.

It’s dark, it’s grainy, but it’s unmistakably Rory, running away from me. Getting in her rental car and peeling out, probably halfway back to New York by now.

Decide to make one last effort before I accept the truth.

I call her. It goes straight to voicemail.

I wonder if she left this phone in a trashcan on her drive, like she did the other one. Start completely fresh when she gets back to the city.

The sinking in my gut is for more than just me this time. Scaring her off hurts more than just me. I guess her seeing the house, me asking her to stay, seeing the reminders of why she left last time, it shook her so bad she couldn’t even stay through her mom’s passing.

Maybe she’ll come back and forth over the coming months?

Maybe she’ll come back just at the end?

Maybe she can’t deal with any of it anymore.

I hate that I cost her that time with her mom, the only time she has left.

But if it’s me she wants to avoid, if I’m what makes her want to stay away from the Heights, I’ll make that easier on her, starting now.

Everything in this town reminds me of her anyway.

The bar, where every corner of it holds a memory of her from this fall.

The shop, where I watched her come, back bowed on a classic car, mouth full of my cock.

This house, built for her memory, for the dream of her, it’s always screamed her. But now it smells like her too. I can still hear her laugh, her moans, her confession to me in it.

I need out of it.

I can think of one place where I have the fewest memories of her, where I have a chance of finding peace. The place she’d never go on her own. Where, even if she were in the Heights, she’d never go looking, we’d never run into each other, so she’ll be safe from me.

While I shower—I have to get her smell off me if I have any chance of surviving this again—the thoughts swirl.

I guess at least I know now. I don’t have to spend the next twelve years wondering what if.

What if I got to ask her to stay.

What if I offered to go with her.

I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t try to keep her this time. With what we’ve gone through apart, the ways we’ve both grown, and what I’ve come to realize since she’s been back in my life. I know she deserves more than I can give her, but I’d happily spend the rest of my life giving her everything I’m capable of, pampering her, spoiling her, and it still wasn’t enough. I was willing to do long distance, or go to New York, whatever she wanted.

All I wanted was for her to stay with me. And she still said no.

I got the chance to put myself on the line this time, like I never got to last time, and I guess I should be thankful for that.

Because at least now I know.

There was never a reality where I’m good enough for Rory Weiss.

I’m the one who said I wanted ugly truths. Got my wish.

Opening the text thread with Gonzo, I grimace when I see his last message to me.

Gonzo

Good luck with the missus.

Throwing my own words back in my face, a teasing reminder of how lucky I am and not to fuck it up. Too fucking late. Type my response and then throw my phone on the bed.

Me

I won’t be around for a while.

Won’t be long before that makes it through the rumor mill, and at least I won’t be the thing that keeps her from seeing Laura Lee. She can have the Heights. I don’t think I want it anymore.

I pack a bag with the bare essentials and take off.

Chilly, crisp air and this view can cure a lot.

It can’t cure me, but I think this is as close as I’ll find to peace ever again.

This land was my grandfather’s. Grew up camping on it, so I knew exactly where to go with my tent, sleeping bag, and the necessities. The old man passed down a couple dozen hectares, and I think Weston will hold it against me forever that it went to me and not him. Fine by me, there’s plenty of shit I hold against him too.

Makeshift campsite down by the creek, an offshoot of the river that’s overlooking the Smokies—burrowed between the evergreens and the bare branches of the birch, maple, and hickory trees—a simple breakfast and dinner over the fire, hikes to clear my mind. That’s been my last couple days.

I wouldn’t say life is good . I can’t think about the reason I’m out here. The girl that isn’t back at home waiting for me. Every time I do, my meager meals come back up. But I’m still in one piece, as far as I can tell. That’s gotta be worth something, right?

All that solitude, the hard-won stillness gets fractured when I hear a male voice hollering my name.

Within minutes loud footsteps accompany the voice, branches snapping and breaking under the steps, like they’re trying to scare all the wildlife away. Ronnie should know better, he’s acting like he’s not even a Southern boy with those clunky footfalls.

Then the voice is in my campsite. “Thank God.”

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

How far does a guy have to go to get privacy around here?

If I open that tent flap, and Ronnie’s fucking face is peering in here again—no regard for my privacy, again —I’ll lose it. Whatever shred of it I even have left.

But it’s not Ronnie’s face that greets me when I unzip and open the tent flap.

It’s Weston’s.