This is fun. Not only am I having an absolute ball teasing Mira, but being in a house full of happy, loving family is making me feel like I’m living in a TV show or something. The space is loud, but it’s full of laughter and camaraderie. It’s the polar opposite from the house I grew up in, and I am revelling in it. It doesn’t hurt the food smells amazing.
I’m so hungry.
And based on the less than stealthy looks Mira is shooting me from across the room, she is, too.
She’s been dancing around the house and keeping her distance from me since I told her I was going to make her beg. The way her eyes widened—damn—that’s a look I want to see, but from above her while I slide myself between her legs.
Her cheeks are pink, and she’s smiling. She is stunning, and I’m spellbound. I’m trying to talk to her father about the nitty-gritty details of being a blueberry farmer, but my focus keeps slipping to his daughter.
The things I want to do to her.
If he could read my mind, he wouldn’t be tolerating my presence in his home, I’m sure. He’s gruff and intelligent and gives clipped answers. His eyes remind me of Mira’s in color and the way they flash with a keen cleverness. I would be a fool to underestimate this man, but I am softening him up to me.
Over the music and hum of conversation, Sylvia shouts, “Dinner is ready!” from the kitchen and waves toward the huge family table they have set up for everyone.
I follow the crowd of people. I’ve met them all now, but I’d be lying if I said I can remember every name or relation. It’s overwhelming.
Gravy dishes, fresh naan bread, and the samosas I’m super proud of making all look sensational. When I’m done staring at the food, I notice Mira is pulling a chair out at the opposite end of the table from me. Retreating like she usually does. Backing down. I like her when she fights back. She’s a tough cookie when she’s working, but this shy, softer side in her personal life is a new facet.
I suppose the fact that she’s never been in a relationship could be part of that. I’m thinking her awkwardness around me can be chalked up to lack of experience. She’s just mature enough to come off like she has more than she does. Either way, I’m happy to sit by Nana—I like the old crone.
“Mira, you’re not really going to leave Stefan over there by himself?” her mother exclaims in front of everyone, and I wish she’d just left it.
The good news for Mira is that if she wants a man who is happy for her to go on having her own life and goals and ideas—I’m that guy. I couldn’t care less if she wants to sit at the opposite end of the table. I saw how she’s been looking at me all night. I’m pretty sure that where she wants to be sitting is on my cock.
“She can sit wherever she wants,” I say, but Mira is already walking toward me with a tight set to her jaw. I pull out the chair next to me and she sits down like she’s made of wood. She’s clearly annoyed. She’s got that look on her face like she might gut someone.
I secretly love this side of her. The resting bitch face. Even when she looks at me like that, her fierceness is exciting. She’s not afraid to let her claws out, and I’m not afraid to get scratched.
I tuck my chair in next to her, and she leans incrementally toward me. “Thanks.”
She mumbles it, tersely, and I offer her a gentle nudge of my elbow against hers. The meal carries on, and I get lost in the flavors. I answer the odd question about what I do—run a racing business. What my accent is—Romanian-ish. If the food is too spicy for me—no.
I love the whole thing. I only wish Nadia were here to see it. It might soften up that very jaded side of her. She grew up too fast, and I’m not sure how to slow her down now. A worry for another day.
“So, Mira, any plans to get married soon?” a woman from across the table asks. Her aunt, I think. Her father’s sister-in-law. She smiles, but I can see what Mira mentioned. There’s a level of judgement, and it makes me roll my shoulders back and sit up straight.
“Can you pass the naan bread, please?” I try to interrupt.
The woman hands it over as Mira leans into me. “Naan.”
“That’s what I said.” I take the platter with a kind smile.
“No, you said naan bread. It’s obviously bread. Like chai, you don’t need to call it chai tea,” she whispers to me, keeping the conversation between us with an amused curve to her lips.
“So, Mira? You never answered my question?” the woman cuts in, not taking the out I tried to provide her.
Mira rips off a bite of her naan and chews angrily. “Nope,” she says through a full mouth. Like if she shoves enough food in there, she won’t say something that she’ll regret.
“That’s a shame.” The woman’s eyes dart to mine before turning back on Mira. And I can already tell that what’s going to come out next will be unnecessarily cruel. I slide a hand between us and take a hold of her thigh again. I’m pretty sure my hands belong on her thighs.
“You’re so focused on your job, and you aren’t getting any younger.”
Mira goes completely rigid, and I let my thumb rub gentle circles on her inner thigh in an attempt to soothe her.
“You need to think about having babies at some point. You won’t experience that fulfillment until you have one for yourself.”
Mira’s eyes narrow and her mouth opens, but I cut her off. The part of me that has failed at protecting the women in my life up until this point rears its ugly head. “You know what’s wild?” I announce to the entire table. “I’ve answered a lot of questions tonight. And it’s been an absolute pleasure meeting every one of you. But not a single person has inquired about my family planning agenda or implied that I might be close to my expiration date on becoming a father.”
The room is so quiet you could probably hear a pin drop. Have I gone too far? Some might think so. Others might think… not far enough. I smile and shovel a mouthful of lentils past my lips and chew thoughtfully, making sure I take a moment to meet the eyes of every single person who is staring at me.
My thumb never stops stroking Mira’s inner thigh.
“I find it fascinating that no one has ever asked me that as a man, but somehow it’s polite dinner conversation for a young woman with lofty career goals and an enviable level of focus.”
No one says anything, but I see Sunny’s lips twitch as he eats again.
I look back at the woman who started this whole conversation. She looks properly chastised, but I can’t find it in myself to care. I have a vicious side too. A protective side. And just because I haven’t been able to protect the people I care about in the past doesn’t mean I can’t start now.
“Maybe you can ask her about the premature foal she saved this month instead?”
I keep eating and feel Nana pat my leg gingerly before she gets back to her food. But it appears I was so busy glaring at everyone else that I missed looking at the beautiful woman beside me. The one who is currently boiling over. Tears glisten across the surface of her wide eyes, taking me completely by surprise. With a loud screech, her chair shoots back.
“Excuse me,” she bites out before storming away from the table and heading toward the front door.
With her gone, I can let my fangs out. I can’t help it—wolves raised me.
I dab at my mouth with the cloth napkin before placing it on the tabletop. “The next person to make that woman cry will wish they hadn’t.” I push my chair back calmly and turn to Nana. “Thank you for the beautiful meal. I look forward to meeting you again.” Then I turn to Mr. and Mrs. Thorne. “Thank you so much for hosting me in your home. I had a lovely time.”
I say nothing more because I’m spitting mad. I don’t think I can come up with any additional nice things to say at this current juncture. Mira’s father stands on my way past and shoves his hand into mine, shaking it with a firm nod. Sylvia looks like she might cry, too.
It’s almost exactly like Mira said. Lovely people, but so averse to confrontation they sit by for garbage like that.
Lucky for her, I’m not so lovely.
I stride to the front door and slip my feet into the soft brown loafers before heading into the humid spring air. It’s sunny and warm, but it’s raining. Fat drops of water fall from the sky, and I expect Mira to be waiting in my SUV, but she’s not.
I scan the driveway, feeling the rain soaking in through my thin shirt. The urge to snap on someone is powerful right now. The look on Mira’s face when that woman just kept going, even though she was clearly upsetting her niece…
Fiery rage burns through my bones as I recall it.
Never again.
A flash of white catches my eye on the far side of the yard. Mira is standing in the rain staring out across a field of low-growing shrubs. She looks tiny from this far away, fragile even. My feet move toward her before my brain even has time to catch up. All I want to do is talk to her. I want to whisk her away to the floor of a stall in my barn and stay up all night talking to her. Hearing about her hopes and dreams. I want to tell her everything.
I want my hands on her body. My skin on her skin.
“Hey,” I murmur once I’m close enough I’m sure she’ll hear me over the patter of the rain. Looking up above us, I see dark clouds circling the valley and the bright rays of sun stretching down through them, bathing us in their light.
“Stefan, please. Not right now.”
“Mira—”
“Can you just not?” Her voice is tearful, and from behind, I can see her hands shoot up so she can press the palms of her hands into her eye sockets. She’s trying not to cry.
She’s so strong.
I step closer and touch her mid-back, right over the indent there. I can’t explain why I find this part of her body so erotic, but I can’t stop resting my hand on this indent. I trail my fingers up the column of her spine until they glide across the wet skin exposed between her shoulder blades.
“Stefan.” Her voice sounds rusty when it breaks over the sound of my name. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
The rain falls around us, muting any other sounds like a veil. A protective layer from the rest of the world. I watch a droplet of rain roll down the slender slope of her neck, tracing her body the way I wish I could.
“Making me want things I can’t have.”
My heart thunders against my ribcage. That’s not the answer I was expecting. “I’m not.”
She shrugs my hand off her body, but she doesn’t step away or turn around. Instead, she groans and tips her head up to sky, loose locks of dark hair plastered to her face. She closes her eyes and lets the rain wash over her face.
“You are. You embody it. With you here charming everyone and then burning the place down to defend me… I feel like I could have it all. The career, the family—I could have someone like you. But that’s not real. This isn’t real. I can’t have that.”
“Mira, listen to me.” I step closer to her. She smells like honey and fresh rain. “You can have that.”
“People wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t forgive me.” Her chin drops to her chest now.
With the wild mass of black hair pulled over her shoulder, I’m stuck staring at the rain shimmering on her bare skin.
“Who cares?” My hands itch to touch her, and I don’t fight it. I reach forward and grip her hips from behind as I drop my lips to the bone at the base of her neck. My tongue darts out over the droplets of water there, and she whimpers the second I do.
I pull away momentarily to watch goosebumps race out over her arms. A dead giveaway. “Tell me that’s not real, Mira.”
Her chest heaves under the weight of her breathing. With our height difference, I can see the globes of her breasts from over her shoulder. Full and round and covered in water. I can’t take my eyes off her, and when she turns to look at me over her shoulder, her dark eyes aren’t shrink-wrapped anymore. They are living fire, dancing with every shade of amber and burgundy and black. She looks almost otherworldly.
Her rose-petal lips part slightly as she scours my face, and I wonder if my eyes are the same. I wonder if I look like I’m starving the way she does.
“It’s real.” Her voice is thick and sultry, and I reach across her body and twist her toward me.
My eyes are fixed on her puffy lips. The way they moved as she said it’s real. I know in my heart, in my soul, that it is, too. And I’m about done with pretending it’s not.
I cup her neck and press my thumb against her jaw as my mouth crashes down on to hers. Her lips open for me instantly, and she goes soft in my arms. She discards all the resistance in her body like a piece of dirty laundry, dropped and forgotten on the floor.
We melt into each other. In a lush green field, covered in fresh spring rain, we give in to the pull between us.
I stroke my tongue against hers, and she matches my fervor as her hands roam my body. One shoots straight under my shirt, and her long fingers splay across the lines of my abs while she moans into my mouth. The other hand grasps at the fabric on my chest frantically, like she can’t get a grip. Like she can’t get close enough.
The world swirls around us, but we stand still, lost in each other. And damn, it feels good. I knew we’d be explosive, but this is mind-altering. This is like a drug.
This is the best kiss of my life.
Frantic kisses turn languid and exploratory. I run my hands over her, luxuriating in the way they glide across her wet skin, and she wraps her hands around my neck like she never wants to let go.
I hope she never does.
I move my mouth over her cheek as I grip her head in my hands. The full length of her body presses against mine as she tries to move in closer. I pepper soft kisses up to her hairline and feel not an ounce of guilt over the scene I made at the dinner table.
This woman is about to be my undoing.
And I’ll do almost anything to prove to her I’m deserving.
I’ll burn it all down to make it happen.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” She leans her cheek into my lips with need. “Someone might catch us.”
I kiss her forehead and slide my lips down the bridge of her nose, cupping her jaw with both my hands as I tip her head up. “Good. Let them catch us.” And then I take her lips again, swallowing the tiny whimpering sound she makes and committing it to memory.
I never want to forget this kiss. The feel, the smell, the sound of rain pattering while Mira whimpers into my mouth. It’s one for the record books.
But then her hand slides down my back and disappears under my shirt. The tips of her fingertips trace the top of my boxers, sneaking just beneath the elastic.
This isn’t one for the record books.
This is the record book.
