Wild Kisses (Wildwood 2)

The tremble of his strong body against hers, the guttural sounds of pleasure vibrating through his chest and into her back were the most intense, most beautiful, most real things Avery had ever experienced.

Trace grabbed the banister with both hands, his body wavering in the wake of his release. His hot breath bathed her back, and his sweaty forehead dripped on her shoulder.

An inexplicable smile spread across her face and filled her chest. So many emotions, past and present, combined to sting her eyes with tears again. Happy tears. Deeply satisfied tears. Life-altering tears.

“Holy fuck, girl,” he finally whispered, breathless. “That was wild.”

Avery laughed, curved an arm around the back of his neck, and pulled his head down for a kiss. The meeting of their mouths was solid and warm and lingering.

When she finally pulled out of the kiss, Trace eased from her body. Then, instead of taking the perfect opportunity to break away and disappear into the bathroom, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face to her neck. There he sighed, long and satisfied. Then just held her.

A torrent of emotions eddied inside her. Avery didn’t know how to feel or what to think. Considering this was supposedly nothing but a hookup, or whatever people called casual sex nowadays, this affection wasn’t how she’d envisioned the end of their tryst. And when all she’d ever known was a man who rolled over and fell asleep before Avery had even come close to finding satisfaction, she wasn’t sure what to do with this kind of emotion.

&nbs

p; To stem her automatic instinct to grab on and hold as tight as she could, Avery stroked a hand along his arm and tried for a light, “Somehow, even at twenty-five, I feel confident saying that I already know nothing in my future will ever top that.”

He chuckled, then pressed his lips to her neck and let the kiss linger, in no hurry to escape her. The gesture was so sweet, and her need to be wanted so strong, she closed her eyes against a hard squeeze in her chest.

Trace finally lifted his head and whispered, “Hold off on that premonition, sugar. We’ve still got all night.”

SIX

Trace floated from sleep to distant sounds he didn’t recognize. His body felt heavy, and fatigue held his eyes closed as his mind drifted. The delicious scent of yeast, cinnamon, and vanilla filled his head. Warm, loving smells he would forever associate with morning and Avery and the café.

He didn’t hear his dad talking to himself, which meant his father was still asleep. And that meant Trace could relax a little longer. A pinch in his shoulder had him shifting to find comfort. Instead he found confusion. He wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t in a bed at all.

Trace forced his eyes open and sat up, propping himself up with his hands behind him. He squinted at the light spilling in the big window to his left, filling the small apartment above Wild Harts café with bright morning light.

“What . . . ?”

His memory returned instantly, and a hit of panic struck his chest. He scanned the small room for Avery but found no sign she’d ever been there except a second pillow beside Trace’s. They’d fallen asleep in the early-morning hours on the thin foam pad she’d laid down weeks ago for her late nights baking downstairs.

A flood of emotions rushed in—excitement, apprehension, confusion. Regret. Hope.

“Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair and searched the floor for his phone. Scooping it up he squinted at the time. 7:00 a.m.? “Holy fuck.”

He’d also missed a few calls—one from his brother, one from his grandmother, and one from JT.

First things first: he dialed his grandmother. As he listened to the phone ring, Trace threw off the white sheet covering his legs, rolled to his knees, and groaned at the delicious aches and pains all through his body. He hadn’t fucked that hard or that long since he’d been a damn kid, and he was feeling every one of his thirty-three years right now. Of course, the twenty-five-year-old he’d fucked all night was already up and downstairs working.

“Stupid sonofa—”

“Good morning, Trace,” Pearl answered, as bright as the sun filling the apartment. “George and I are enjoying coffee on the porch. Listen to this.”

Movement sounded over the phone; then music drifted over the line. Trace recognized the old song immediately—“You Send Me.” He didn’t know who sang it, but he sure recognized his father’s voice joining the lyrics, word for word.

“Baby, yoooou send me . . . honest you do . . . honest you do . . . honest you do. Ooooh . . .”

The sound swamped Trace’s chest with surprise and relief and a kind of bittersweet joy that tightened his throat. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead as his grandmother came back on the line.

“Isn’t that amazing?” she asked.

Trace nodded, working to pull a breath into tight lungs. “Yes,” he managed with a rough laugh. “That’s amazing.”

“And he asked if you could bring home some of Avery’s apple turnovers. He actually said ‘Avery’s apple turnovers.’”

Trace lifted his brows. His father often didn’t recognize his own son when he came home from work. “Man. That’s . . . wow.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if Avery’s making turnovers today, but I’ll grab some if she is.”