My Valdez Valentine (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance Book 4) Page 7

  Her sobs take over her words, and she keens in sorrow, the sharp, ragged sound of her cries echoing off the walls of the van as we inch closer and closer to Valdez.

  And because I sense she needs to do this more than anything else, I don’t try to soothe her or tell her it’ll all be okay. I don’t say anything. I am a silent witness to her pain, a safe place for her misery, a fellow traveler on a journey that looks more and more likely it will end in disaster.

  ***

  By the time we get to my house, the worst of her cry is over. She still takes ragged breaths, but when I glance up, she’s wiping away the last of her tears.

  I haven’t said a word.

  Like I said, I won’t judge her. We can just pretend it never happened.

  I pull into my driveway, barely able to see six inches in front of the car and mostly finding my way by habit and instinct. A gale of wind blows my door closed as soon as I open it, so I use more strength holding it open for myself the second time. Particles of ice and snow smack my face as I feel for the side door handle and slide open Addison’s door. Although I’m wearing a parka and gloves, the cold still cuts through me as I offer my hand to her. I can only imagine how freezing she is in that ridiculous little coat that was made more for fashion than function. When Tamra moved out, she left a couple of boxes in the basement. Now I’m wondering if any of them have a decent coat. Once Addison’s settled with a cup of hot tea, I’ll check.

  A three-bedroom, two-bathroom home built in the 1980s with a tan vinyl exterior and green metal roof, my house isn’t fancy, but I’m only its second owner, and it’s all mine, paid for in full. I take care of it. And although I know it’s not much compared with what some might have, I’m proud of it.

  As I unlock the back door and pull Addison inside, I hope that she can see the good in it too.

  Livia’s waiting for us, crowding the door with her relief and enthusiasm to see me. The wind steals the door from my slippery glove, slamming it shut with a loud bang, and Liv offers up one deep, loud bark of protest, though her tail wags a mile a minute.

  “Hey, girl. It’s okay. I’m home.”

  As she jumps up to greet me, I glance at Addison, who’s standing to my right, looking around the small living room as she unwraps a scarf from around her neck.

  “This is your home,” she says, taking in the simple decor and furnishings.

  My living room has cream walls, a tan carpet, and a navy-blue sofa and easy chair set, in addition to a simple wooden coffee table, end tables, and cream-shaded brass lamps. Overhead, there’s a light-fan combination, and I installed a big-screen TV across from the sofa. Sliding glass doors head out onto a back deck, where I can drink a cold beer and watch the sunset on a summer night.

  To the left is the kitchen. Again, it’s pretty simple: wooden cabinetry and white Formica countertops. On the counter, there’s a dozen oranges from California in a black wire bowl, a chrome kettle on the stove, and a toaster oven, where I make most of my meals.

  “It’s not fancy,” I tell her, thinking her place in LA is probably massive and grand.

  “I like it,” she says, offering me a small smile as she kicks off her boots and shrugs out of her stupid coat. “It’s a lot cozier than the Best Western.”

  “Someday I’ll install a fireplace,” I tell her. “Just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “A house in Alaska without a fireplace? You’re defying stereotypes, huh?”

  I tilt my head to the side. “A lot of houses don’t have fireplaces.”

  “Really?” She hangs her jacket on a coat-tree by my front door. Her scarf follows. “I would think it was mandatory.”

  “A flue lets in more cold than it keeps out.” I gesture to the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “I’d love one,” she says, blowing on her hands and rubbing them together. She perches on the edge of the couch. “Tell me more false stereotypes about Alaska.”

  Glad that she’s calmed down and seems interested in talking about something—anything—besides her brother, I lean into the topic as I busy myself taking off my boots, hanging up my coat, making a bowl of lunch for Liv, and heating up some hot water for tea.

  “Um…Okay. We don’t live in igloos and have pet polar bears.”

  She chuckles and nods. “What else?”

  “Hmm. Not everyone is a lumberjack,” I say. “Some of us even read Latin.”

  “Present company included.”

  I fill up the teapot and turn on the heat. “There are no penguins in Alaska.”

  “What? No!” Her eyes widen. “Come on! Is that true?”

  “If they’re in Alaska, they’re in the zoo. Case closed.”

  “That one surprises me,” she says, sitting back on the couch and making herself more comfortable.

  It’s nice to see her in my space. It makes me happy. I gesture to the blanket folded behind her. “That’s warm if you’re still chilly.”

  “I feel like I’ll be cold forever,” she says, the double meaning in her words possibly unintentional but not lost on me.

  The more I get to know her, the more I’m sure that losing her brother will leave a huge vacuum in her life. I don’t know what they went through together, but I sense it was the sort of traumatic childhood that binds siblings together in a way that’s unbreakable except by death.

  “Nah,” I say gently. “That’ll warm you up.”

  She unfolds it, wrapping the faux fur around her shoulders and sighing softly. “Mmm. What else?”

  “Um, let’s see…Okay. Well, shows like Ice Road Trucker or The Deadliest Catch don’t depict everyday life in Alaska.”

  “I’ve never heard of those programs,” she tells me.

  “What do you watch on TV?”

  “The news. Occasionally a movie.” She shrugs. “I don’t have much time for TV. I work a lot.”

  “There are some great programs on TV these days,” I tell her. “Netflix…Amazon Prime…Hulu…they’ve all got terrific shows.”

  “Like what?” she asks me. “What do you watch on Netflix?”

  “I like Stranger Things, Ozark, and Black Mirror,” I tell her, taking two mugs down from the cupboard while Livia chomps happily on kibble. “But there’s something new almost every week now. I can barely keep up.”

  “Any good murder mystery shows? I think I heard about a serial killer program—”

  “Maybe you’re thinking of Mindhunter?” I ask. “That’s supposed to be good. We could watch it.”

  “The weather’s bad,” she says, glancing over her shoulder out the window and then back at me. “Maybe we should ‘Netflix and chill’ today.”

  My body goes rigid and I freeze, staring at her from behind the kitchen counter as my blood changes course from a comfortable meander through my veins to rushing hot and furious toward my cock.

  She tilts her head to the side. “Isn’t that what it’s called?”

  Umm. Are we on the same page here? Because…yes. The answer is a huge, unambiguous yes if she’s offering what I hope she’s offering. But I need to be sure before I race over to the couch and jump her.

  “Isn’t that what what’s called?” I ask her in a low voice, my eyes searching hers.

  “Um…hanging out and watching a show on Netflix together?” she says, her brows furrowing lightly, like she can tell the air’s changed between us, but she isn’t sure why. “What did you think I meant?”

  “The expression ‘Netflix and chill’ means something very specific,” I tell her, feeling my cheeks flush, “and it doesn’t have a whole lot to do with watching a show on Netflix.”

  “Wait. What?” she asks, then giggles softly, like she’s very curious but a little embarrassed too. It’s cute and endearing because she’s generally so confident. “What did I say?”

  Now I’m getting embarrassed. I’m standing back here with a fast-growing hard-on while she looks at me with those big, brown eyes, hoping to catch an episode of Mindhunter.

 
“Umm…”

  Her hair, which was covered with snow, is starting to dry, and it curls around her face in dark-red tendrils. With a cape of white fur around her shoulders and freckles dotting her creamy skin, she doesn’t look like a high-powered attorney. She looks young and soft. She looks…insanely fuckable.

  “Just tell me,” she insists.

  I turn around and grab the kettle, pouring water into the mugs and averting my eyes from her as I say, “It means to, ah-hem…turn on Netflix and have sex while it plays in the background.”

  As the word “sex” leaves my mouth, feeling as loaded as my balls, my eyes slide up to meet hers. Her lips part. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath and letting it go slowly. “So…yeah. I’m up for Netflix and chill. Or,” I say, trying to be a gentleman, “we could just watch a show instead. Whatever you want.”

  “Maybe,” she says, “we could do both.”

  ***

  Addison

  Okay. Fine.

  I know what it means to “Netflix and chill,” but I didn’t mean to suggest it. I swear. The words popped out of my mouth without permission, and then I was embarrassed, and I didn’t know how to take them back. So I resorted to a tried and true method of evasion used by women everywhere: I played dumb.

  The reality is that I’ve been wound up pretty tight since arriving in Valdez, and while crying my eyes out in Gideon’s van helped release a little tension, having sex would help even more.

  Further, it’ll help me compartmentalize. I can’t get any answers about my brother until tomorrow. I want to be distracted. I need to be distracted. Having sex with Gideon all afternoon would be an excellent way to keep my mind off of everything else.

  Finally, and in summation, that tension between us? It’s humming now. The only thing that will give either of us a lick of peace would be, well, to give in to it.

  “Really?” he asks me.

  I nod. “Really.”

  When he comes around the counter with two steaming mugs of tea, my eyes skim down his flannel shirt to the zipper of his jeans, where there’s a prominent bulge. Something inside of me clenches hard. When it releases, my cunt feels slippery and my underwear is damp. I take a deep breath and suck my lower lip between my teeth before letting it go with a soft pop.

  “Fuck…” he murmurs, setting the mugs down on the coffee table before me.

  I slide my glance up to his face and stare, letting my eyes fill with heat, with need.

  “…me,” he breathes, staring back at me.

  “That’s the general idea,” I say, rolling my shoulders so the blanket slides down my back. He’s staring at my chest, so without further ado, I reach for the hems of my shirt and sweater and lift both over my head, shaking out my hair around my bare shoulders before looking up at him again.

  His eyes flare wide and black. “Addison.”

  “Call me by that other name,” I tell him.

  “Aa’icagaq,” he whispers, the guttural sound of the ending “kuh” making my heart beat faster.

  “Take off your shirt,” I tell him. I want to see his chest. If I’m right—and I’m almost always right—it’s defined, tan, and smooth. I want to run my fingers over the ridges of muscle. I want to feel his skin, hot and hard, against mine.

  He’s been staring at my breasts, which are covered in a black, satin and lace bra, but now his eyes flick up to mine. “You’re bossy.”

  “I’m used to getting my own way,” I explain, unbuttoning my jeans as I lie down on my back. “Now take off your shirt.”

  “Hold on.” He kneels beside the couch, his face close to mine, his eyes gentle. Too gentle. I don’t want rough and mean, but I don’t want gentle either, or I’ll start to cry again. “You’ve had a couple of rough days—”

  “Which I’d like to forget for a little while with your help.”

  “—and I don’t want to take advantage of you, Addison.”

  “I’m lying on your couch with my tits out. You’re not taking advantage of me. If anything, I’m trying to take advantage of you and you’re cock-blocking yourself.”

  “You’re emotionally vulnerable,” he points out, though his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. He’s tempted, for sure—he’s just trying to do the right thing before we get on with it.

  “Fucking me isn’t going to make that any worse,” I tell him.

  He flinches. “What do you mean?”

  “We barely know each other,” I say, leaning up on my elbow. “There’s nothing emotional about what we’re about to do. There’re no feelings involved. It’s purely physical, right? And on a purely physical level, I’d like you to fuck me hard enough that I see stars. I want to erupt like a volcano. Then we can sleep and eat and do it again. All afternoon. All night long until the sun rises and the pass is cleared. And then we can forget about it and get back to business.”

  His eyes narrowed when I said, “no feelings involved,” and though I’d never admit it, something inside of me fisted when I said it too. It told me I was lying. Now I don’t know what feelings I can possibly have for this man already, but my reaction tells me that “none” isn’t accurate. That said, I’m not even the tiniest bit interested in exploring them, so I stuff that realization down, concentrate on what I’m saying, and try to make myself believe it.

  “I’m serious,” I say, unzipping my fly. “Let’s fuck. I want to.” I need to. “You did your due diligence. Your conscience should be clear.”

  He takes a deep breath, inflating his broad, barrel-like chest. When he lets it go, I can feel it whisper over my face, and the warmth sends chills down my spine.

  “Fuck me, Gideon,” I whisper, looking deeply into his eyes and hoping he understands that I need the comfort that physical contact can offer, and I’m begging him to give it to me. “Please.”

  He reaches behind his neck and pulls his shirt over his head, then leans over me with a half-groan, half-roar. His fingers slide into the cups of my bra and tug, exposing my breasts to the cool air of his living room, and he leans forward, sucking one erect nipple greedily into his mouth.

  The sensation is sharp and surprising and my back arches, lifting my ass partially off the sofa while his tongue whirls around the puckered skin. I moan with pleasure as he skims his lips to my other breast. His fingers slide under the elastic of my panties, and his hand flattens over the throbbing mound of my sex.

  His lips leave a trail of soft kisses along my chest and up the column of my neck before he nudges my mouth with his and I pull him closer so that his lips seal over mine. The velvet heat of his tongue slides into my mouth just as his middle finger surges forward, into the slick valley between my thighs.

  “Unnnnhh,” I whimper, my fingers buried in the hair at the nape of his neck, my nails curling into his scalp.

  He kisses me deeply, all the while making slow circles around my clit with the pad of his finger. As my breathing grows shallow, his lips slide down my throat, between my breasts, across the firm soft skin of my stomach. Just as I’m about to come, his finger disappears to help push my unfastened jeans and panties over my hips. Mewling in frustration, I open my eyes when I hear him chuckle softly over me.

  “I’ll be back in a sec, aa’icagaq.”

  “Now,” I whine like a child.

  “Coming,” he says, pulling my jeans off.

  He stands up and takes my legs in his hands, spreading them apart and placing them on his shoulders as he kneels on the couch between my thighs. His hands flatten under my ass, and he pulls my body forward as he bends his head, his nose nuzzling the folds of my sex as his tongue takes over for his finger.

  As he laps at my throbbing clit, I bury my head back in the sofa cushion, stars exploding behind my eyes while I experience my first orgasm. He works through the contractions and tremors, kissing the nub of flesh gently before flicking it with his tongue. And when I can barely stand it anymore, he slows down completely, flattening his tongue over the entire area and lapping so slow
ly, I think I might die before I climax again. My hands are threaded through his thick, coarse, black hair, and they pull and twist, my whimpers and sighs building until I come again, this time in a hot rush of slick cum that coats the walls of my pussy, readying my body for his.

  “Gideon,” I manage to murmur. “I need you…inside of me.”

  When I open my eyes, he’s unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, and he skims them over his lean hips, stepping out of them when they pool on the floor. His cock, which juts out proudly from his pelvis, surprises me. It’s uncut. Natural. Hooded. Whatever you want to call it, it’s the first uncircumcised dick I’ve ever seen up close, and more than anything, I’m fascinated. I may even gasp softly.

  I lean up on my elbow, flicking my eyes up to his. He glances down at his erection, then puts his hands on his hips. “Is this a problem?”

  “For you or me?” I ask, registering the slight edge in his tone.

  “You.”

  He’s so serious—and so quietly defensive—I wonder exactly how often this has been a problem for him and decide that it’s probably been a source of rejection more than once. And sure, I’ve heard the popular misconception that uncircumcised dicks are not as clean as circumcised dicks, but that’s ridiculous. Either a man washes his whole body or he doesn’t.

  “I assume this house has a shower upstairs?” I ask.

  He nods. “It does.”

  “And I assume you use it?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why would I have a problem?” I ask.

  “Some women don’t like—”

  “That’s their issue,” I tell him, finally letting my lips widen into a smile. “Not mine.”

  “Lean up,” he says, sitting on the edge of the couch beside me as his face relaxes.

  I do, and he reaches behind my back to unclasp my bra and skim it slowly down my arms so that I am as naked as he.

  “You’re beautiful, Addy,” he tells me.

  Remember that feeling I had when I told him there were “no feelings involved” in our impending sexcapade? Now it threatens to double me over. Because in my life—in my entire life—only one person ever called me “Addy,” and he also happens to be the only other human being on the face of the planet that I love.