We make our way around the side of the house, through the side entrance that I know nobody’s using. I lead her up the back steps and into my mother’s atrium, and then out onto the rooftop deck. Finally, Hazel finds her voice. “What are we doing? We’re going to miss everything.”
“Watching the fireworks. We’ll have a great view from here.” I don’t look at the dark sky above us, not caring about perfectly controlled fiery chemical reactions. No, that’s not the fire I want to see. I want to see Hazel let her guard back down, quit playing polite with the other wedding guests. I want her, the real Hazel—unfiltered and relaxed.
I want to be myself too. Not the returning prodigal son, not a Ford, but just . . . Wyatt.
I throw the lock on the door and lead Hazel over to the big chaise lounge my father gave my mother for her birthday years ago. “Come on,” I encourage her, setting the cupcakes down on a small side table to shrug off my jacket. “Get comfortable.”
She gives me a long look but comes closer. She bends down, reaching for her high-heeled shoe, and I step in to help her with the strappy latch and slip the shoes off. I guide her onto the lounge, getting us arranged beneath a blanket, where Hazel curls into me.
“To Avery and Winston,” I tell Hazel, offering her one of the mini cupcakes. “May their marriage be as sweet as these cakes, and not blow up like the fireworks.”
“Hear, hear,” Hazel says, tapping her cupcake to mine. “That was better than your reception toast. Seriously, you suck at best-man toasts.”
I laugh softly, admitting, “Yeah . . . yeah, I should have practiced it a bit more. All those eyes staring at me made me nervous.” It’s only because of the moonlight that I see her look of doubt. But it’s the truth. “And when I tried to picture people in their underwear, that was a mental image I did not need.” I shake my head, and fake a shiver.
When Hazel laughs, I feel like a fucking god.
We take a bite of our cupcakes, and I moan at the flavor. I know I helped . . . but damn, the Sullivan family is better than the Keebler Elves when it comes to putting magic into baking.
“I don’t know who made these, but this might be the best cupcake I’ve ever had,” I comment, and Hazel’s smile tells me which Sullivan it was.
“Yeah, I hear the chef is a total hard-ass. Or maybe it’s that her assistants drive her crazy.” She arches a brow, implying that I’m the one who made her crazy that night at the bakery.
I laugh, and appreciate that we’re back to some banter. I never thought I’d miss her teasing me, but I have. “Maybe.”
As we finish our cupcakes, a whistling sound fills the air. A moment later, the first firework explodes overhead, a big pink starburst that fills the sky. A second later, two more starbursts explode, white ones that make the whole thing look almost like a Mickey Mouse outline.
We sit back, watching the show. It’s no little backyard show, but a full professional display, with music from the DJ filtering up in time with the explosions. We watch as crackling sparkle-flashers go off in time with Cascada’s “Evacuate the Dancefloor,” then big multicolored flowers for Beyoncé’s “Love on Top,” and a widespread display to the soaring lyrics of “I Will Always Love You.”
The whole time, I don’t focus on the fireworks as much as the feel of Hazel’s arm under my fingers, the warmth of her body curled against mine. I feel like it’s my chance to explore with my fingers what my eyes have feasted on.
I take my time, getting to know her body and what she likes. I caress her fingers, the ones I watched gracefully stroke her pool cue that first night she captured my attention. I trace along her arm, feeling goose bumps rise along her skin in response to my touch. Teasing along her collarbone, I dip into the gentle hollow there and her breath catches.
She shifts against me, not able to keep her hips still, and I know she can feel my cock getting thicker and harder.
She’s practically humming with desire and breathing hard as the big finale starts, the music stopping as the sky is overwhelmed with explosions, all ending with a monogram of Avery and Winston’s name in laser lights against the dark sky.
“Wow,” Hazel whispers, her voice failing. I reach around, cupping her breast through her bridesmaid gown, and feel her nipple pebble against my finger.
I kiss the silky-soft skin of her neck before moving up to nuzzle her earlobe, tracing the shell with my tongue. “I want you,” I whisper into her ear, and she moans quietly. “But if you tell me to stop . . . I’ll stop.”
Instead of saying anything, to answer me, she brings her hand to cover mine, pressing it harder against her breast.
I shift us on the lounge so that she’s lying on her back and I have full access to pleasure her. I throw the blanket off, our own rising body heat keeping us warm now. Without the brightness of the fireworks, the dark night surrounds us, broken by only the moon’s light as it illuminates Hazel.
We kiss, her mouth opening and her tongue wrapping around mine eagerly, eliciting a groan from deep in my throat. I stroke her body, sliding my hand up her leg, pushing the hem of her dress higher as I kiss down her neck to her chest, using my teeth to tug the cup of her dress down.
Touching my tongue to her nipple is like an explosion in itself as Hazel’s back arches, her knees spreading wantonly. “Fuck!” she gasps, panting as I start to suck on the stiff nub. “Fuck, Wyatt!”
“I plan to,” I growl against her breast as I run my hand up the inside of her thigh. Her panties are soaked, the thin, silky material clinging to her. I slip them out of my way and find her warm, wet center.
I explore her, letting her juices coat my fingers as I feel along her lips up to the pearl of her clit.
She groans, running her fingers into my hair. “This . . . means . . . nothing.”
I hum, not agreeing or disagreeing as I slide a finger inside her. She cries out softly, gorgeous, glorious when she surrenders to the pleasure. “Of course it doesn’t.”
I’m not going to argue with her, not when she’s letting her walls down, allowing me into her warm center. But this means something . . . to me, and to her. Even if she won’t admit it.
I pump my finger slowly in and out of her, my thumb tracing up her cleft to find her clit.
Her cries get louder, and I kiss her fiercely, swallowing the sounds so they don’t drift down to the wedding guests below as they cheer Winston and Avery off and slowly begin making their way to their own cars. Finding the pace she needs, I stroke both her inner walls and her clit until she’s quivering, her hips lifting to meet my touch.
I can feel her spasms as she gets closer and closer, and I take her right to the edge. “Yes . . .” she whispers.
“Not yet,” I answer, slowly withdrawing my hand. “Together.”
She whimpers as she comes back from being so close, but nods.
It’s a flurry of movement as she shoves her panties off and hikes her dress up to her waist. I jerk my shirt out of my slacks and undo my belt, freeing my aching cock as I climb between her legs.
We both gasp as I take myself in hand, running the head of my cock between her lips to cover myself in her slick wetness, and then tapping it lightly on her clit.
“Dammit, Wyatt . . . fuck me!”
Her growled demand almost makes me lose control and slam into her, but I squeeze the base of my cock tightly between my thumb and finger. “Fuck, Haze . . . that mouth of yours is so damn sexy.”
I notch myself at her entrance and push in slowly, knowing I’m a lot to take, but she melts around me, her body drawing me in as we both moan at the tight pleasure. I go easy, pausing at times to half draw back and push in again, listening to her sounds for guidance. When she’s ready, I go deeper.
And she takes me deep . . . all the way deep. When I’m pressed against her, root to center with our bodies joined, I kiss her again, giving her a moment. Hell, giving myself a moment so I don’t come too soon after promising her we’d do it together.
Hazel puts her arms around my neck as I lift up and thrust in again, both of us gasping at the feeling. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt a woman’s touch, and I suspect she’s not felt a man inside her in a while either. Not many get past our defenses and prickly exteriors.
So I know we can’t last long. But I devote myself fully to giving Hazel her release, alternating powerful strokes with swirls of my thumb over her clit.
I feel Hazel tighten, and I know she’s close. I kiss her fiercely, hammering with deep, hard thrusts into her eager pussy until she falls apart, her fingernails digging into my shoulders. The power of her pleasure equals her sass and fire. She doesn’t do anything halfway, her passion full throttle at all times.
Her clenching, quivering orgasm pushes me higher, and I chase her, thrusting harder and harder until I’m on the edge myself, and she locks her legs around my waist. With a final stroke, I find my release, pumping thick, heavy pulses of my cream into her.
Still panting, I kiss her, wanting this moment to go on.
Afterward, lying in the chaise lounge side by side, my arms around her and the blanket pulled up to ward off the late-night chill, Hazel purrs happily. “Thank you.”
I chuckle softly, and kiss the tip of her nose. “Uh, thank you.”
Without warning, she moves, straightening her dress. “I guess I’d better get out of here before people realize Nessa is leaking on the driveway.”
I’m confused. “Who?”
Hazel looks over her shoulder. In this moment, there is something so beautiful about her—an unguarded softness, an easy peace that is in such contrast to her usual fiery sass. Both are completely intoxicating. “My car.”
Nope, I won’t let her go. I reach out, pulling her back to the lounge with me, and she plops down again. “Stay,” I tell her quietly before she can wriggle or protest. “Stay with me. Tonight at least.”
She pauses, but shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“Why?” I ask, and I can see her wheels turning as she racks her brain for an answer. For me . . . or for herself? “Hazel—”
“I have an early shift at Puss N Boots tomorrow,” she says quickly, though it sounds potentially made-up, “and because even if the valet and cleanup crew don’t realize there’s a weird car still here, your family most certainly will.”
“So?” I counter with a shrug, knowing Hazel doesn’t actually give a shit what my family thinks. “They won’t say anything to you. Even if they wanted to, it’s not their style.”
“What is their style?” Hazel asks after a second’s hesitation, a second I want to encourage to bloom into a night.
I pause. I want tonight . . . but I want more than tonight too. Which means honesty. “With outsiders? Manipulation and half truths. With family?” I pause again, then sigh. “Actually more of the same. Except Wren. She’s a straight shooter.”
Hazel chuckles quietly. “Charming. You’re really selling me on them. But I actually do need to go.”
She leans down and kisses me goodbye, but I grab around the back of her neck, kissing her deeply. In that kiss, I tell her the truth.
This isn’t just tonight. Not by a long shot.
“I’ll walk you down.”
Once we’ve both got our clothes straightened and Hazel runs her fingers through my hair, I take her hand and silently lead her through the dark house, thankful for the map in my head and that all the craziness of the wedding seems to be over and cleared out.
“Skip the third step,” I tell her as we descend the staircase, carefully taking a long step myself.
Hazel laughs in a whisper. “You snuck out a time or two?”
“Eh, a time or two.”
The truth is, I didn’t have to. I could stroll out the front door and no one would stop me, but they’d ask questions, tell me to be careful, and remind me that I’m a Ford, and sometimes, I just needed to get away from the expectations of home.
Outside, her car is the only one remaining. Carefully, I help her in, stealing another kiss when I do. She smiles, and I trace it in the moonlight. “I really do want you to stay.”
“I know,” she says.
Back inside, I lean against the door, my smile matching hers. It’s wistful, a little dreamy . . . a good smile.
“Wyatt?” a voice calls from the living room, shattering my fantasy. I freeze. Shit. That’s Dad. How much did he see?
I walk into the dark living room, but there’s enough moonlight coming through the windows that I can see him sitting on the couch, holding a tumbler with a heavy pour of scotch. “Dad?”
He looks up, a little bleary eyed. “Wondered where you disappeared to. Should’ve guessed.”
I tilt my head, immediately defensive. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
Dad drops his tumbler to the side table heavily, sighing bitterly. “Why do you do that? Take everything I say in the worst possible way?”
My voice hardens. “Experience?”
Dad looks like he wants to argue, but his eyes are full of pain . . . and maybe defeat. Or maybe that’s the scotch. “You know, when you were a kid, you used to be proud of me. Of what I do for Cold Springs. I don’t know when you decided I was so awful.”
I don’t know either. He used to be my dad, a powerhouse of strength, goodness, and a role model I admired. But as I got older and realized that he wasn’t infallible, and learned that some of the good he’d done came with a big price tag, I lost respect for him. With the passage of time, I can see that some of that was really me losing my innocence as I realized how the world worked and that my superhero dad was a mere human, with all the requisite flaws. And if it were only that, we could’ve been okay.
No, the real line we crossed was when I tried to go to him, to tell him about the issues I was having with Jed, thinking he would help me, but he dismissed me out of hand, essentially taking my uncle’s side. That ship sailed long ago, though, and there are more pressing issues that need to be brought to light.
“Hard to with what you and Jed are doing with this subdivision thing,” I tell him honestly. “Forcing people off their land so Jed can make a buck? How can I be proud of that, Dad?”
The accusation is bitter, but it’s a shit move, even for Jed.
Dad shakes his head. “Is that what you heard?”
I shrug, not confirming. I won’t rat out anyone, and besides, it’s not like he doesn’t know what the people of Cold Springs are saying. They’re lined up around downtown, shouting it to the city council members’ faces. And his. Not to mention, camped out on the front lawn.
After a moment, Dad pushes on. “There is so much more to it than that. But it sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.” He swallows the rest of his scotch and gets up, setting the empty glass back on the side table. “It’s been a long day and I don’t want either of us to say something we can’t take back, so good night.”
He leaves, and I’m left in the empty living room, torn in half. One part of me wants to relish the memories of a chaise lounge, a beautiful Hazel, and the things we did. The other half of me wants to drink in the bitterness of my short conversation with my father, and twist my stomach on the acid.
With a heavy heart, I go upstairs. I’ve slept six hours in the past two days. Maybe a good eight hours will help clear my damn head, although I wish I had Hazel here to usher me off to dreamland.
