If Barclay’s smile had been wired before, it hit the stratosphere at Branch’s demand.
And as he drank beer and listened to his friend talk about the new woman in his life, Branch thought, when the time came, since Branch probably wouldn’t be around, he hoped like fuck Olly gave Barclay a bachelor party he’d never forget.
fifteen
Yes, It Was
EVANGELINE
The good news was that Branch’s reply to her text that evening of Done, handsome. Heading home, was Right. On it. This meaning, she hoped (and not only because she was hungry) that Branch was at her house cooking
The next piece of good news was that Branch’s truck was parked at her curb when she drove down the block.
However, when she walked into her kitchen, there was no Branch and no cooking smells.
Evangeline froze for a second, the dread that had eventually filtered into her system after four days of Branch being away illogically beginning to seep in, regardless of his text and his truck at the curb.
But this dread vanished when she saw Branch walk into the family room through the French doors that led outside to her backyard.
She let out a breath and smiled at him.
He didn’t smile back, but that didn’t bother her. He never smiled.
Something else she had to work on.
And she’d crack that too.
“Good timing,” he said instead of offering her a greeting. “Chops’ll be done in a couple of minutes.”
He was grilling.
Branch Dillinger, mystery man, hot guy and alpha-sub extraordinaire, grilled.
Damn, she had come home to a beautiful man grilling chops for her dinner.
She felt the tingle of that go from her scalp to her toes.
She tossed her bags on the counter and moved his way, meeting him just beyond the island.
He stopped when she made it to him but he didn’t reach out to her. He just stared down at her with that blank expression on his face that said he might be there, he might be grilling for her, but his guard was up.
She ignored it and moved in, fitting herself to his body, wrapping her arms around him and tipping her head back to hold his gaze.
“Chops?” she asked softly.
“Pork,” he stated unnecessarily, since it was doubtful after her earlier litany of what she didn’t like that they were lamb.
He hesitated a moment before settling his hands on her hips in a manner that was somewhat awkward, like he didn’t know what he was doing, how to be in a casual embrace.
“Yum,” she murmured.
He just stared down at her.
“If they’re going to be ready soon, I’ll run and be quick about changing,” she told him.
He nodded.
She lifted up on her toes, sliding a hand up his spine on a trajectory to his neck to pull him down to her for a kiss but he moved much more swiftly.
Lifting his hand, he tangled his fingers in the ponytail she’d pulled her curls into and held her still in a way the rest of her went still.
“Need to chat about something,” he muttered.
Oh no.
Evangeline didn’t think she could handle another one of Branch’s chats. Yes, sometimes when they were over, it was good they’d had them, fabulous, even awesome.
But they were draining and she needed a break.
At least a day.
“Branch—” she started carefully.
“Last night, babe, in your playroom you let me take over. It was good. Fuckin’ great. We both felt that. Or my take was we both felt that. I just need you to share that’s what it was for you.”
She was confused.
How could he not know that it was great for her too?
“I, uh … last night?”
He dipped his face an inch closer to hers and he dipped his voice when he spoke too. “I took over. In a scene, never been driven to that. And you gotta know, I was driven to that in a good way. Came natural. Seemed you were happy with the flow but you’ve had a scene turn and…”
Her heart again leaped in her chest in that cartoon way that if she was nothing but a drawing, it would bound out of her chest and slam into him.
She wasn’t a drawing but even so, the thump was so hard, she felt certain he had to feel it too.
He was worried about her. Looking out for her. Going over an experience that wasn’t like any they’d had together, wasn’t customary in the roles they both understood they held when they played, and he wanted to make sure she was all right with that.
“… I don’t want to bring him up again,” Branch kept talking, “but I gotta know you were in a good place with that then and I gotta know, time has passed, shit can fuck with your head, you’re still in a good place now.”
“That was hot,” she told him.
“Yeah,” he agreed, but did it watching her closely.
Oh yes.
Her big handsome boy was clueless.
He was so into her.
So she melted into him and started stroking the skin at the back of his neck, her fingers drifting through his soft hair to do it.
“I’m okay with it, honey. I was then and I am now. That wasn’t what I was expecting. But you didn’t read it wrong. I was far more than okay it went down the way it went down so you don’t have to worry.”
Even though it didn’t show in his face, his body relaxed in her arms.
God.
Branch.
She again slid up to her toes and tightened her arms. “That said, handsome, you were a bad boy.” She gave him a squeeze. “I knew you would be. And I’m glad you were. But more, I figure when it comes time for the reckoning, I have a feeling you’ll be glad you were too.”
Heat infused his gaze but that was all he gave her before he muttered, “Right.”
She grinned up at him.
A different kind of warmth mingled with the heat as he caught her smile.
Then he slid his hand in her hair to the back of her neck, the one at her hip to the small of her back, and sighed deeply, like a man who’d accepted his fate.
She knew he hadn’t fully accepted it, he wouldn’t make it that easy for her to get the win, but she also knew she’d get him there.
She knew that more when he dipped his head even further and gave her a brief, soft, closed-mouth kiss.
That was a far better greeting than “Chops’ll be done in a couple of minutes.”
When he lifted away, he ordered quietly, “Change.”
She used his earlier words in reply. “Right. On it.”
That earned her a hitch of his lips in a not-quite smile and he let her go.
When he did, Evangeline moved directly to the stairs, taking them slowly, but she hurried through changing because it was late and she was hungry.
And Branch had cooked her some chops.
* * *
Branch made love to her that night.
After thick, delicious, perfectly cooked pork chops that had been glazed in barbecue sauce that had earned its smoky flavor from more than just the bottle, a fresh salad full of greens, avocado, chopped red onion and Gorgonzola cheese, and fresh rolls slathered in soft butter, they caught an episode of True Detective (without his dick in her mouth) before they went up to bed.
Together.
As in, holding hands together.
She gave him no orders, wondering where he’d lead it.
And when the time came, he’d led it there.
Stopping her at the foot of the bed to take off her clothes and allowing her to pull off his.
Lifting her and putting her in the bed while kissing her.
Then touching her everywhere with his mouth. His lips. His tongue. His fingers.
It was not a race to an orgasm.
It was like he was memorizing the feel of her, her look, her scent, her taste. Drawing her in. Imprinting her on his brain.
And it wasn’t like it was all gorgeous.
It just was.
Gor
geous.
This multisensory exploration wasn’t just Branch’s to have. He allowed her the same privilege.
Taking that from him while he was tied down for her was one beauty.
Taking it from him while he was giving the same to her was another one.
But when he finally rolled her to her back, opened her legs with his knee, settled between and slid inside, he was done taking while giving.
He communicated this by capturing her wrists in both of his hands, pulling them over her head and pressing them into the pillows. Having her in position, he angled slightly away even as he moved slowly inside. His eyes dark and roaming her body, watching hers take his, his gaze eventually roved up her belly, breasts and to her face.
And then it locked on hers.
Her lips parted, soft pants escaping with each thrust, Evangeline wrapped one leg around his ass, the other around his thigh and lifted her hips to get more.
“Pretty,” he murmured and slid in deep, and she loved him there so much, her neck arched. “Always so pretty,” he whispered. “Now beautiful, full of me.”
“Branch,” she breathed, pressing at his hands at her wrists to communicate she wanted to touch him.
His fingers held on tighter.
“No, baby,” he denied gently, beginning again to move inside her. “When we have this, you’re mine.”
She felt her nipples contract.
“I want to touch you,” she told him.
At that, he transferred both of her wrists to one of his hands and slid the other one down her side. Thumb extended and pressing in at her ribs, his hand moved in and up, where he cupped her breast.
“You want touch,” he replied. “I’ll give it to you.”
“I want to do the touching.”
His hand at her breast moved, his thumb slipping hard against the nipple, and it felt so freaking good, she arched into him.
“Looks like I got it covered.”
She righted her head and tried to focus on him. “Baby—”
He started moving faster, thrusting deeper, and her soft pants weren’t so soft anymore.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His finger met his thumb at her nipple and gently rolled.
“Yes,” she gasped. Her hips started rocking to meet his lunges and she found it more difficult to focus on him. “More, baby.”
He gave her more, bending his head to take her mouth.
But that was it.
She took it, kissing him, tangling her tongue with his, reveling in the taste of him, tightening her hold on him with her legs, using him as leverage to lift up and meet his drives.
His fingers at her nipple ceased their gentle torture, his hand moved down over her midriff, her belly, between her legs, and his thumb slid in and hit her clit.
She gasped against his tongue and jolted in his hold.
He broke the kiss, moving faster, his lips brushing hers, his labored breaths skimming against her lips.
“More, Branch,” she pushed out breathlessly.
“Of which, baby?” he asked tormentingly.
“Anything,” she begged.
He gave it all to her, went faster, his thumb pressing harder, and God.
It was vanilla. Almost as vanilla as you could get in missionary position (except with her hands held down).
But it was divine.
“God,” she breathed, her pussy tightening around him.
“Fuck, feel that,” he grunted, going even faster, harder, his fingers at her wrists biting in, nearly causing pain.
Yes.
Her back bowed, she did her best to move her hips to meet his thrusts, gasping against his lips.
“Fuck, feel that,” he growled, now pressing her wrists fiercely in the pillows, seeking his own leverage to slam into her, his drives pounding against her clit adding delicious vibrations to the work of his thumb, and Evangeline was done.
Curling her fingers into fists, her body tightened under him, all around him, and she cried out against his lips as the slow, lazy orgasm swept her away. She almost didn’t feel his mouth take hers so her noises filled it as his grunts filled hers, forcing her climax to linger, headily suspended in its grip, perfectly happy with the thought it might never let her go.
It was then his thumb went from between them but that hand went back to her breast, fingers squeezing and pulling her nipple so she moaned into his mouth, still cascading through her climax as his fingers bit brutally in her wrists and his grunted groans forced themselves down her throat.
He rode her through his climax and he rode her after it, gentling his touch everywhere, his tongue coming out to taste hers lightly before his lips slid away.
She lay under him, body liquefied, her breaths still coming shallowly, her legs still wrapped around him in the only embrace he’d allow.
Evangeline liked sex. She had her kink and she got off on it. But she liked it any way it came if who she was sharing it with was someone who could do it well and better, if they meant something to her.
But getting vanilla from Branch was a far sight better than simply liking it.
She was able to let loose. She did not have any hang-ups. Therefore she could get into sex, enjoy it, and had come in a variety of ways that didn’t have to do with playing the Domme.
But she’d never climaxed that dreamily, that lazily, that amazingly during conventional sex.
God.
Branch.
And if that wasn’t enough, she felt his lips skate along the shell of her ear before he whispered in it, “Okay?”
God.
Branch.
She turned her head so she had his ear. “Okay, baby.”
He twisted his neck and looked in her eyes.
Before the languid beauty resting in the depths of the ice of his could fully penetrate, he let her wrists go and kissed her.
Finally free to do so, she circled him with her arms and kissed him back.
When he ended the kiss, he did it rolling them both to their sides, disengaging with his cock, but the rest of them he entwined.
“To make sure that’s straight,” he said quietly. “You take me, your game, your rules. I take you, both are mine.”
“That’s a deal,” she replied immediately.
His expression changed, oddly growing soft even as it grew uneasy.
And then she lost it when he lifted his head and again put his lips to her ear.
“Fucks me to have to say it right now but I gotta keep you sharp, Angie. There’s still a lot of this match to play and I’m thinkin’ you don’t get I’m conditioned to withstand pretty much anything.”
“Wasn’t me who just made love to you,” she returned.
He settled back with his head on the pillow and his gaze on hers before he replied.
“Yes, it was.”
She felt that like a blow to the stomach. It felt beautiful at the same time troubling.
But she didn’t let it show.
“Just sayin’, be careful, baby,” he whispered.
She didn’t feel like being careful.
“I will,” she whispered her lie right back.
He looked like he didn’t believe her.
But even so, he didn’t caution her again.
He just rolled them both out of bed, led them to the bathroom, was hands-on with cleanup in a way that was so Branch (which meant in a way she very much liked), and then he led them back to bed.
Evangeline slept in his arms.
And she knew she’d won that game when, hours later, she woke up just the same.
sixteen
If It Was from You
EVANGELINE
Four days later, it was Sunday afternoon and Evangeline was in her Arizona room watering her plants, a task that took some time considering she had a ton of them, when she heard the kitchen door open.
She was in a bad mood.
It had been four days of life with Branch in it.
Though that was absolutely not what had put
her in a mood.
During those days he worked.
She worked.
Twice, he had jobs that kept him away until late.
But one of those nights, while she was sleeping, he’d come to her bed, and when she’d woken in the morning, she’d left him there asleep.
Once she’d had to work late and she’d come home to his cooking, some TV and time to mellow out, and they’d gone to bed together, had sex, not missionary but still vanilla (and still fabulous).
And once she’d cooked for him, he’d come home at a decent hour, she’d planned to play, but he’d gotten a phone call that took him away before she could instigate it.
That was the only night when he hadn’t joined her in bed and that had begun his time of late jobs where all she got was a drowsy wake-up when he joined her before she slid right back to sleep.
In that time there had been nothing intense. No heavy discussions. No games played.
Which meant no games won.
Just life. Food. Work. TV. Sex.
But they did it together with no sign Branch was retreating.
She hadn’t earned a smile, or better, a laugh.
But that didn’t mean she hadn’t scaled a mountain.
He came to her home every night and he made himself at home when he did.
No more sitting on the edge of his seat, shoveling food in his mouth. No more holding himself awkward in the kitchen, staring out her back window.
If he was awake with her in the morning, he went down and made coffee for her (something she never requested, but she loved that he did).
When they watched TV, he rested back in the couch, his feet on the coffee table, her head on his thigh, his hand tangled in her hair.
And when she arrived back home after a day when she’d left him sleeping in bed, she’d come up to her room, finding he’d made her bed (not decoratively, the man could not arrange a toss pillow to save his life, and she had a lot of those, but he still made a mean bed, all straight covers, fluffed, precisely placed pillows and tightly tucked sheets—him knowing how to do this a curiosity she was dying to assuage).
And last, when he cooked for her, he moved around freely, knowing her kitchen, sharing an intimacy with her that she knew he didn’t know he was sharing.
He hadn’t left a toothbrush in her bathroom (though he didn’t need to since he’d confiscated one of her toothbrush heads). And she hadn’t cleared a drawer for him and told him to leave some boxers (mostly because, if they were normal, it was far too early for that, but it was especially since Branch was where Branch was in his head).