Jordy army, p.12
Jordyn's Army, page 12
Delaney
My body buzzes with adrenaline as Boone encapsulates me in his arms. His body is rock solid, a mass of muscle and strength. My knees go weak as I melt into him.
His tongue splits my lips, invading my mouth. It explores with an unrushed, almost luxurious calm. It’s as if he’s committing this entire experience to memory one movement at a time.
My blood pounds through my veins as I break our kiss.
“You okay?” he asks, looking at me with a sweet concern.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
I take a step back. My stomach is clenched, my thighs aching. I need relief and I need it now.
Seeing him in my space, he looks even … more. More sophisticated, yet more rugged. More handsome yet altogether sexier.
I need him. I need him now.
I lift the edge of my shirt over my head. His eyes bulge as his tongue whispers over his bottom lip.
“You,” I say, tossing him my shirt, “are still dressed.”
“I like this you being in control shit.”
“I thought you might.”
We undress quietly. The only sounds are zippers drawing down and fabric hitting the floor.
I hold my breath, waiting for the moment I’m self-conscious. It doesn’t come. Instead, as his gaze lands on my naked body, I feel more confident than I ever had.
It’s the way he looks at me. There’s no judgment about the pooch in my belly or the way my thighs have absolutely no gap. The only thing I can see in his face is how much he wants me. None of the rest matters.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says.
I take in his tanned body. It’s all lines and ridges and hard muscle. It looks crafted, beautifully sculpted in what must have taken miles of running or hours in the weight room.
He’s beyond gorgeous. Aesthetically, he’s perfect. I could look at him forever.
“Boone …”
“I mean it. I’m not being charming. I’m not using stupid lines.” He shakes his head, trailing his gaze up and down my body. “You. Are. Beautiful.”
I take a step toward him. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”
“Fucking Hell.”
His lips find mine in one quick swoop. There’s no sweetness to it this time. It’s a bold move, one that shows me just how much I turn him on.
He presses kisses along my jawline. My head falls back with a moan. The ends of my hair tickle the small of my back as he licks and kisses his way down my throat.
“Damn it, Boone,” I say breathlessly.
He chuckles as he palms my ass. Bending before me, he rolls one of my nipples with his tongue. I press the back of his head toward me, encouraging him for more.
His hands scratch against my body, adding to the stimulation. Pressing in between my legs, he pushes them apart.
I gasp as a finger runs the length of my slit. My wetness covers my thighs. I look down at him to see him watching me.
It’s almost too much. His touch, my dry spell, plus the look of this man kneeling between my legs is enough to almost get me off just standing here.
Then he presses my clit with the pad of his thumb.
I jump. He laughs, palming one of my ass cheeks to hold me still as he works his fingers back and forth. I move my body, aiming for more contact, but he denies it to me.
“Boone,” I tell him with my eyes closed. “If you don’t do something soon—ah!”
A finger, then two, is inserted inside me as his mouth is planted against my clit. The darkness is lit up with a plethora of colors as my body screams a silent plea for release.
I tense, caught off guard by the sudden overstimulation. My hands go to his hair, tugging the soft strands, as he works me over.
Finally, I give up and release myself to him. My body sags against his hand as he presses me tighter against his mouth. His tongue slips inside me, making me shiver. His teeth nip at my swollen clit.
I yelp in a mixture of pain and pleasure.
“I’m going to come in your mouth,” I warn him.
My eyes fall back in my head as he growls against my tender flesh. Another finger is inserted into my opening and, when he sucks my bud into his mouth, I come completely undone.
He guides me to the climax of bliss and then gently back to Earth again. Once I can control my vision, I look down just as he’s looking up.
He grins.
“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, wiping my juices off his face.
“I have to admit that seeing you covered in me is pretty hot too.”
He winks, getting to his feet. His cock is rock hard. It sticks straight up with pre-cum already dotting the tip.
“You were pretty submissive,” he teases.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I fall to my knees. Taking his length in my hands, I listen to his gasp. “Let’s see who’s submissive now.”
6
Delaney
The sun is bright. Too bright. Way brighter then it should be.
I start to move but my muscles scream at me to slow it down. And then I remember: Boone.
I lie quietly in my bed and breathe in the scent he left behind. His cologne is all over me, all over my sheets—permeating my entire house, I hope.
My body sings with memories of his touch. My lips swollen from his kisses. My core exhausted from the orgasms he expertly delivered until I passed out sometime around three this morning.
I look to the side and see a rose on my pillow. It’s the rose from outside—the one I was waiting to bloom. Rising up on my elbow, I pick it up to see a note left beneath it.
You were right. These do bloom when something beautiful happens.
Thanks for a night I’ll never forget.
Boone
I hold the rose to my chest and smile.
To read more about Linton, Illinois and the Gibson Boys, check out Crank. Out now on Amazon, Audible, and enrolled in Kindle Unlimited.
About Adriana Locke
USA Today bestselling author Adriana Locke lives and breathes books. After years of slightly obsessive relationships with the flawed bad boys created by other authors, Adriana created her own.
The author of the Landry Family and Gibson Boys novels, and Tangle and Tumble in the Dogwood Lane series, Adriana resides in the Midwest with her husband, sons, two dogs, two cats, and a bird. She spends a large amount of time playing with her kids, drinking coffee, and cooking. You can find her outside if the weather’s nice, and there’s always a piece of candy in her pocket. Besides cinnamon gummy bears, boxing, and random quotes, her next favorite thing is chatting with readers.
She’d love to hear from you! Look for her at www.adrianalocke.com.
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Love, Rose
Shari J. Ryan
1
Ten years of my life. Ten. That is what I devoted to Frankie Cameron. We met less than a month after I moved home from Penn State. I figured I would come back to the same old town—to the same old people. There are currently only a thousand residents in Sleepy Hills, Connecticut, so when someone new moves to town, everyone knows within a week. I knew within one day when Frankie Cameron moved to our small area.
He bought the house two doors down from my parents’ ranch-style house. I watched from my bedroom window as he unloaded his pickup truck, carrying boxes alone without breaking a sweat. People moved in so seldom that the odds of the person being a single, attractive man, were slim. Therefore, I assumed he was moving into that white-picket enclosed house with an equally stunning wife.
It just so happened I had to run to the grocery store, and I figured maybe I would casually stop in front of his house and introduce myself—be a friendly neighbor.
It all went downhill from there.
Frankie smiled at me as I rolled down my window. He walked up to my car, and I don’t know what happened between that minute and eight hours later, but I fell asleep in that man’s bed.
Thinking back on it now, we never took one step backward. Whatever it was we had, was the true definition of insta-love, and now I know why people laughed when I told them it was love at first sight.
Clearly, I was blind to reality.
Everything was perfect. Frankie Cameron was perfect.
Was.
Frankie told me I was beautiful each and every morning, right when I woke up, even when I knew I looked like a zombie. He held doors open for me and walked on the side of the curb closest to the moving cars. Frankie even cooked. How could I have not fallen in love so fast? Frankie made me feel like the luckiest woman alive.
Until today.
Today, I feel like the dumbest woman who has ever stepped foot on this earth.
Today, I want to know what Frankie fancies about red-heads with freckles.
Today, I want to hear that Frankie is experiencing a bout of amnesia and forgot we have been married for eight years.
I doubt that’s the case, however.
Her name is Amber. Amber has the same shade of red hair as I do, and freckles along her spine, just like me. Amber looks to be about ten years younger, though.
“Oh, Amber, babe … right there—” Frankie moans.
“Do you want me to get that for her?” I ask.
Frankie’s head snaps upright with shock. His face falls into a look of destruction. “Who is this?” Amber asks.
“His wife,” I answer for him, somehow remaining entirely too calm. “I placed your purse by the door. You can see yourself out now.”
In silence, Frankie and I watch as Amber makes her way across the bedroom, picking up her strewn clothes along the way. She doesn’t even seem embarrassed that I walked in on them, or to be naked in my bedroom, for that matter. She’s doing little to cover her perfectly trim body.
Once we hear the front door open and close, I tilt my head to the side.
I will not cry. I refuse to give him that.
“Let me guess: you can explain?”
I take a few steps closer, taking advantage of the fact that he’s naked and won’t be flying around the room to escape my wrath.
“What’s there to explain? You caught me cheating on you.” Wrong answer, dickhead.
I lift his pants from the floor and throw them at him with all my strength. “Why wouldn’t you just leave me if you were unhappy with me? Why hurt me in this way, Frankie?”
Frankie combs his fingers through his hair and closes his eyes. “It’s been two months, Rose. You haven’t touched me in two months.”
I haven’t. It’s because I smelled a rat. Or perfume. I smelled the perfume and saw a hickey on his neck. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening, but I couldn’t convince myself enough to look at my husband the way I had looked at him for the years prior.
“You started cheating on me three months ago. The first time you cheated, I smelled the perfume. The second, third, and fourth, I smelled extra cologne that you used to cover up the scent she left behind. Her name popped up on your phone while you were in the bathroom one night, and then two weeks ago to the day, you came home with a hickey on your neck. How hard were you trying to hide this, Frankie?”
“She came onto me,” he says.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” I reply, trying to mock his deep voice. “I have felt neglected—wah, wah, wah. Anything else you’d like to add?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. He says the words as if they’re going to fix our lives.
“Me too. I’m leaving.”
“Rose, don’t leave. Let’s go to marriage counseling. We’ll do a couple’s retreat. I’ll take you out for more date nights like you asked. Please, don’t leave.”
I can’t help but laugh. I sometimes laugh when I’m angry and punch things when I’m happy. There’s a cross-wiring in my brain, I guess. “No,” I tell him. “I had one hard rule. No cheating.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Rose.” Frankie stumbles from the bed, pulling his boxer briefs up to his waist. He’s walking over to me with outstretched arms. “I made a mistake. I swear to you, it won’t happen again.”
“You broke my trust,” I tell him. “That’s something words can ’t fix.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he pleads. He must be reading these responses right out of a cheater’s manual.
“No,” I tell him again, keeping my monotone sound in check. I must pretend like I don’t care. It’s the only playing card I have.
I haven’t figured out why I’m so calm. It must be the wiring in my head again. My heart is pounding so hard, and my head feels like it’s squeezing in. My life as I know it is over, and I have no clue where I will go, or what I will do. Yet, I’m talking to him like I’m asking him to go outside and pluck the newspaper out of the front bushes like I do every Sunday morning.
“So, that’s it? We’re just over. We aren’t going to try to work this out?” he asks, trying to make this out to be my fault. Why should I stay?
“That’s it,” I tell him.
2
A Year Later
It was Frankie’s house to start. I left as fast as I came.
I only stayed long enough to pack a duffle bag worth of clothes and belongings. I tuned out all his apologies. They meant nothing to me. I didn’t even care about the rest of my stuff at that point. My only focus was deciding on my two options: I could head back to my parents’ house two doors down, or I could start anew.
Living with my parents after being on my own for ten years didn’t seem like a viable option, nor did living right next to my dick of a soon-to-be ex-husband. I had to leave the area.
The state.
The country.
I moved to London—a small town in London. The roads are cobblestone, the small Georgian houses are affordable to rent with a roommate, and the neighborhoods are in walking distance of the downtown village.
It took less than two weeks to find a housemate who had ironically also recently suffered through a divorce.
Before I left, I quit my columnist job at the local newspaper and took half of the savings from my joint account with Frankie.
Without a second thought, I hopped on a plane. I haven’t looked back across that ocean once. I have no regrets, other than meeting Frankie.
Suzette, my new housemate, is thirty-five; just a few years older than I am. She has an uplifting spirit and loads of motivation. Suzette has inspired me to run, to start a lifestyle blog as I have dreamed of doing, and helped me find a part-time job at a nearby art gallery to fulfill another one of my passions. She’s better than a dumb husband.
I didn’t think uprooting my life could have been simpler. It’s like I was traveling down the wrong path, and as soon as I corrected my direction, everything began to fall into place.
Aside from all the positive happenings, it took a good six months for the pain in my chest to melt away. Even now, I try my best to push the thoughts away; a day doesn’t go by without the dreadful thoughts and questions I have.
It has now been a year of mourning my marriage, but I still don’t understand how a person can casually and carelessly hop into bed with another woman.
I’ve spent countless hours scrolling through the photos I have stored on my laptop; our wedding pictures—we intended them to be timeless, like my dress and Frankie’s tux. We looked so happy—we were so happy. I was happy.
Maybe I should have given him a second chance. That thought also goes through my head daily.
I still can’t pinpoint the exact moment when our relationship died. I’ve tried to convince myself that I don’t need to know the whys and hows of what happened. I’m sure the truth would only eat away at me, and I take on more blame than I should.
Frankie spent the first month after I left calling me, texting, and even emailing.
I changed my phone number when I made the trek across the pond. The phone calls stopped, as well as the texts, but the emails have continued. A new email address helped for a while, but curiosity will always get the best of me. Sometimes, late at night, I will sign onto my old email account and read the first few lines of the emails Frankie has sent.
Apparently, he’s heartbroken and not giving up. He’s been searching everywhere for me, but no one knows where I’ve disappeared too. My parents vowed not to tell Frankie. Of course, I don’t think Frankie has the balls to knock on my parents’ door, no matter how desperate he has been or might still be.
The last email I snuck a peek at made my heart hurt, more than it has in the last six months. I only read the first line, but it was enough to knock the wind out of me:
You were my love at first sight. I wanted you to be my love at last sight too. Everything is wrong, and I can’t make it right.
If he was trying to make me hurt, it worked. Frankie wasn’t one for sharing his emotions or writing letters, notes, or emails. I knew he loved me by the way we kissed and the way he looked at me when we made love, or even the kind gentlemen-like gestures. Beyond that, he had a beautiful stone facade that I couldn’t see through. Maybe if he expressed his feelings more, I would have seen the downfall coming sooner.
This is when I start to blame myself.
However, as those thoughts cross my mind, I realize I never shared my feelings with Frankie. At least, not after he broke my heart. A therapist I see occasionally told me to write him a letter, pour my heart out, then trash it.
Trash the letter? That sounds like a waste of time.
“What are you doing over there?” Suzette asks as she descends the stairs from our small space on the second floor. We keep most of our storage boxes up there, but she’s admiring a bracelet on her wrist, which I’m sure she just dug out.
