A Year of Love Read online

  It was a stupid fight over trivial things. I see that now with even the bit of distance I’ve had since we argued earlier, but I’ve yielded on every single item his mother has asked for in my wedding. And cumulatively . . . it’s a lot. His mama is working that last nerve standing, and I don’t want to make this easy for him.

  Yeah. Slightly petty.

  “Have you eaten?” he asks, walking deeper into the apartment and sitting on the couch. His powerful legs spread and he rests his elbows on his knees. Were things copacetic between us, I’d already be straddling him. As things stand, I’m here, mouth watering at the print of his dick straining against his pants, my thighs clenching. I’m trying to look mad. I am mad.

  Or I was.

  Til he showed up fine has hell and smelling like heaven.

  “Babe.” He tilts his head, as if wondering if I’m okay. “I asked if you’ve eaten.”

  “Uh, no.” I carefully perch my horny ass on the chair facing him. “I’ll order something after you leave.”

  “What makes you think I’m leaving?”

  “What makes you think you’re staying?”

  He gives me a knowing look, lips pressed against a smile. “Shawna, come on. We both know how this goes. I’m spending the night.”

  “The hell you are.” I stand and start pacing, as much an outlet for the sexual energy coursing through my body as a path for my frustration. “You can’t just feed this or fuck this away. We had a knock down drag out today over the phone.”

  “Because of a few extra guests?” His dark brows snap together over the confusion in his eyes. “Is this a bride thing? A monthly thing? A—”

  “Dude, you should stop right there or else you won’t be spending the night any time soon.” I shoot him a disgusted look. “A monthly thing? Really? What does my period have to do with your mama running roughsod all over my wedding plans and you letting her?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. You just seemed emotional today and I—”

  “Emotional? Yeah, anger is an emotion. I was angry because every time I turn around, your mom is adding flowers, and caterers and guests. Last week she mentioned doves.”

  I level a can you believe that shit look at him. “Doves, baby.”

  “I know.” He winces, running a hand over the back of his neck, a sure sign of tension. “She’s been a bit . . .much lately.”

  I send him a silent understatement telepathically and I think he gets it.

  He stands and walks toward me. I take two steps back. He pauses, cocking a brow before taking a few more steps in my direction. I retreat until my butt hits the kitchen counter.

  “Some reason you’re keeping your distance?” He advances until mere inches separate us, and the heat of his big body, the scent of clean male and his woodsy cologne tease my senses. Forget the jugular, this man with all that sex appeal goes straight for my pussy. And his aim is true.

  “I just think we . . .” I glance over my shoulder like the counter at my back is a cliff and I have nowhere else to go before I plummet over the edge. “We should keep clear heads until this is settled.”

  “Impossible.” He steps closer, crowding me, placing his hands on the counter, muscular arms running along either side of me, caging me in. “I haven’t thought clearly around you since the night we met.”

  I laugh a little breathlessly, the memory rising vivid in my mind. “You had some balls coming over to the table and asking if we should have our first kiss that night or wait for our first date.”

  “I’ve still got ‘em.” He gently places my hand on the stiff length of his erection. “See for yourself.”

  A low groan slips through my gritted teeth when his soft, full lips feather kisses down my neck, to the juncture of my shoulder where he nips the skin. Markus is a biter, leaving his marks on soft undersides and tender inner thighs like secret whispers only he and I ever hear. It takes all my will power and a good portion of my Black girl magic to shove at his chest when all I want to do is burrow into it. Maybe lick a nipple or two while I’m there.

  “Don’t.” I make my voice firm and look up straight into his dark eyes. “I want it as much as you do, Markus, but don’t use my body against me. It’s manipulative and unfair.”

  His expression falls, the smile slipping completely from his face. His concern gathers into a frown. “I would never—”

  “You are. If I let you get away with it now, you’ll do it when we’re married. Stop it and tell me why you keep punking out with your mother.”

  For a second, I almost waver under his intense stare. He works in a male-dominated space, populated with rich, entitled athletes. As a heavily-recruited college player himself before a career-ending injury sophomore year, in many ways, he’s just like them. There is a definite alpha male vibe to Markus, but he doesn’t have a drop of actual male toxicity, or that big dick and pretty face wouldn’t have gotten him any further than my bed that first night.

  And yes, I brought him home and fucked him the night we met. I’d never done anything like that before. I wasn’t proud the morning after, but you better believe I was satisfied. And I’ve since found that goes a long way.

  His mother may be annoying me right now, but she did raise him right. He has a dominant personality, yes, but he’s respectful and kind and generous, and against all odds, relatively humble.

  Swagger notwithstanding.

  “Tell me.” I risk my control to reach up and cup his strong jaw. “What’s going on?”

  He leans into my palm, closing his eyes and covering my hand with his. “Dad cheated.”

  Shock winnows through me. “What? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. There are photos and recordings.”

  “What the . . .how?”

  “Mom suspected there was something going on for a long time.” Markus shrugs, takes a step back and shoves his hands into the pocket of his tailored slacks. “She hired a private investigator.”

  “Like on Cheaters?”

  “Um . . .not quite so dramatic. She didn’t show up with a camera crew at a Motel 6.”

  No. Bertice Carrers-North, who’d refused to yield her maiden name for the man she loved, certainly wouldn’t surrender her dignity.

  “Have you talked to your father? What does he say?”

  Markus’s handsome features harden and his lips tighten into a thin line. “What can he say? She caught him red-handed and kicked him out. He’s staying at a hotel.”

  “How are you feeling about all of this? I mean, I know you’re not a kid, but at any age this kind of thing must make you feel . . .sad? Angry? Betrayed.”

  “I’m fine. I—”

  “Markus, you can tell me the truth.” With my arms, I encircle his lean waist, bring him close and, I hope, make him feel safe enough to share his vulnerabilities with me. He swallows, the muscles of his throat moving and the line of his jaw clenched.

  “I’m pissed,” he finally admits softly. “I’m disappointed. I’ve always wanted to be like him. He was the one who taught me to treat women with respect, but he does this to my mother? That’s the epitome of disrespect.”

  “Have you seen him? Talked to him?”

  Markus nods slowly, annoyance twisting his firm mouth. “He says it was just this one time. That it was a mistake. He told me he was about to break it off when Mom found out. Like that matters.”

  “How long has she known?”

  “About three weeks.” He grabs my hand, brushing his thumb against mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. She asked me not to say anything to anyone yet. I thinks she’s embarrassed.”

  “She has nothing to be ashamed of. Your father on the other hand . . .” I narrow my eyes at him. “Markus North, if you ever cheat on me, I promise to pickle your balls.”

  His lips quirk with the smile I hoped my comment would elicit. “Should we add that to our vows?”

  “I’m serious. I could never forgive you. Is she taking him back or what?”

  “He wants to go to cou
nseling, but she doesn’t seem very open to it. I think she’s done.” He sighs, shaking his head. “And I think she’s been using our wedding to distract herself.”

  Guilt and frustration and sympathy roil inside me in equal measures.

  “I understand her pain,” I tell him, reaching up to finger the collar of his shirt. “But I’m not having fowl flying around my reception because your mother needs a hobby while they figure out their future.”

  “Oh, the doves were actually for the wedding ceremony, not the recept . . .”

  The razor sharp look I slice at him cuts down that explanation.

  “Right,” he finishes, grimacing. “No doves at all. I’ll talk to her.”

  I stare up at the rugged face, usually so impassive. After years of learning him, loving him, knowing him, I see right through the guard at his eyes. I stormed through the gate at his heart. He’s mine now, and as much as I hate fighting, I love making up even more. I step closer and tip up onto my toes, dusting kisses along his jaw. His hands find my hips, pulling me close so I can feel him hard and stretched out.

  “You handling this before we eat or after?” he asks, his voice husky at my ear.

  “Who needs food?”

  “You do usually,” he says, his laugh low and modulated.

  “Not when you’ve been on the road.” I undo his belt, unbutton the expensive pants and slip my hand in to squeeze his ass. “You may fuck me now.”

  “Finally,” he bends to growl into the shallow base of my throat. “I thought I was losing my touch.”

  I pull him by the leather belt hanging at his waist, walking backward into my bedroom, eyes smoldering. “Come show me this famous touch you claim to have and I’ll let know if you’ve lost it.”

  He sexy-stalks me until my knees hit the bed, bringing our bodies flush. I push his polo shirt up, baring the corrugated expanse of abs and pecs. You don’t care for the most finely-honed bodies in the world without finely honing your own. He yanks the shirt over his head, and the ridges at his hips peak over the edge of his briefs. I’m not sure what God was thinking when He gave men that line at the hip. It actually supports the theory that God is female because that anatomical feature is the inspired design of a woman.

  “Take off your clothes,” he rasps at my collarbone.

  “You first.” I challenge him with a look from under my lashes, loving the power tug of war that always infiltrates our foreplay. Eyeing his muscled torso, I lick my lips. “You’re already halfway there.”

  Wordlessly, and holding my eyes in a burning stare, he pushes the pants and briefs down over his hips and long legs. The jangle of his belt blends with our short, panting breaths in the stillness of the bedroom. The first time I saw Markus naked, it almost sent me into tongues.

  And I’m Presbyterian.

  In addition to the sculpted, toned frame his clothes had hinted lay beneath, there was his dick. It’s pierced, which shocked the hell outta me. Markus is not that guy. Or at least you’d never think he was. I palm the warm, smooth, hard length of him, moving my hand up and down slowly.

  “I’m gonna thank your frat brothers at the wedding,” I say, angling a smile up at him, rubbing the tip, fingering the bar of his ampallang piercing.

  “Craziest dare I ever accepted.” He shakes his head, but laughs a little. “My only comfort is they all have them, too.”

  “Oh, that’s not my only comfort.” I glance down between us, eyeing the little bar that delivers so much pleasure caressing inside me with every thrust.

  He pushes me gently onto the bed, letting my legs hang over the side. “Oh you want comfort?”

  Grabbing the waistband of my shorts and panties, he tugs both down my legs until cool air kisses the wet strip of skin at the juncture of my thighs. On his knees, he presses my legs wider apart, humming his pleasure as he runs his mouth over my pussy, repeating the caress, never taking my clit. Just grazing the lips, passing back and forth until the muscles in my thighs quiver. My fingers twitch at my side on the bed.

  “Markus,” I moan, grabbing his head and pushing him deeper into me. “Don’t play with your food.”

  His wicked laugh is barely breath and barely sound at my most intimate place. He opens me, licking in my crevices, sucking my clit, slipping his thumb inside.

  “Shit.” I gasp, my back arching off the bed. “That’s it. Right there. Keep going.”

  “Are you planning to direct me the whole time?” He asks, lifting his head, humor and love warming his gaze. “Because I assure you I know what I’m doing.”

  Laughter trembles through me and I close my eyes, releasing his head, spreading my arms out at my side in surrender. “Then demonstrate your competence.”

  And dear Lord, he does.

  The laugher fades, evaporates when he takes my clit between his lips and bites. I arrow up, sitting erect, legs spread, staring at his head moving, mouth devouring me. He grabs under my thighs and lifts me, angling me so his tongue goes deeper inside. He takes one lip and then the other into his mouth.

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” I chant, chokeholding the sheets in my fists. The multi-tasking skill of this man deploying his talented, busy tongue and the huge, blunt fingers scissoring inside me. My eyes roll back in my head. I bend one knee, digging my heel into his back as pleasure builds and tremors through my body.

  “I’m coming,” I pant.

  He hums against me, and I’m so aroused, even that simple vibration urges me toward the precipice. Pushes me over into a writhing, body-shaking, screaming orgasm. The muscles in my legs tighten and I can’t breathe deeply enough, just taking in shallow sips of air. It rolls through and over me, tornadic, turbulent. Thorough, leaving me incoherent and trembling and sated and limp. Naked, uncaring. Even after I come, he still feathers kisses inside my thighs, behind my knees. At the arch of my foot.

  “Markus,” I mumble, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck and pulling him up. “Commence with the fucking.”

  He laughs against my stomach, licking my hipbone and palming my thigh. His eyes meet mine over the plane of my belly and breasts.

  “I love you,” he says. And it’s so earnest. So sincere. Such a promise. His words a vow much more intimate than the ones we’ll make in front of a crowd I barely know at a ceremony I barely planned.

  I brush the back of my hand over the rise of his cheekbone, and find myself blinking back tears at the tenderness of these seconds we have alone. “I love you, too.”

  He looks at me for a moment longer before climbing up onto the bed and slotting his hips between my thighs. I cinch my ankles at the base of his spine, pulling him closer, guiding him to the place where I am wet and wanting and hollow. Where I still ache even after a record-breaking orgasm because it’s not the same as him filling, moving inside of me. As the way our souls touch and tangle when we make love.

  He doesn’t ease in. It’s with a deep, plunging thrust that he takes me, forcing air from my lungs on a startled breath. Not startled that he’s inside, but awed anew at how perfect the fit and feel of him are. Of how our bodies are as suited as our hearts. That bar slides along my inner walls, torturing, stimulating me.

  “Harder,” I pant, catching his eyes blazing down at me. “Deeper.”

  “Fuck,” he mutters, his eyes narrowing as he drags me to the edge of the bed, standing and thrusting inside again. He pulls my legs against his chest and goes so deep, I can’t catch my breath between thrusts. I’m gasping, panting, dying, living. Gone are the deep, even strokes. His motions become jerky, barely controlled. His expression twisting, contorting as he tries and fails to leash the agony of our joined pleasure.

  I’m coming again. Waves of sensation revisting my body in claiming sweeps. The bliss is so intense, something collapses inside of me. Consciousness slipping away as my body demands and takes much-deserved rest.

  * * *

  In the morning I wake alone and instinctively run my hand along the empty space beside me. The sheets are still warm where Mar
kus slept, and the pillow is smushed into the shape he always deforms it when he’s restless.

  “Baby,” I call, my voice still hoarse from our lovemaking. From crying and shouting and nearly passing out from the gale force fucking. “Where are you?”

  He’s out there rustling in what sounds like the kitchen. I sit up, tugging the sheets to cover my breasts and pressing my shoulders into the headboard. When he enters the bedroom, he wears only his briefs, and I barely notice his beautiful body because I’m distracted by his face. Anxiety? Uncertainty?

  “What’s up?” I ask him. “And why do you have a broom? I just cleaned this place.”

  “No, it’s not . . .” He trails off into an uncharacteristic silence. “It’s not to sweep.”

  “Okay, then what are you—”

  “Let’s get married.” He tosses the broomstick from one hand to the other. “Today.”

  My mouth falls open and the air gets hung up in my throat. I choke slightly and have to bang my chest a little to breathe. “You said you want . . .today . . .what?”

  “I got the license last week so I would have it since I’m traveling so much. My frat brother is ordained. He could perform the ceremony.” He approaches the bed, his gait growing more confident despite my continued silence.

  “Why?” I finally manage. “We have another few weeks and your mother—”

  “Has blown this wedding up into an event, and I get it. I know why she did it, but you never wanted any of this.”

  “No.” I shake my head and stare down at my hands smoothing the sheet. “I didn’t.”

  “Neither do I, to be honest.” He laughs harshly. “It’s not just this wedding she takes over and inflates. When she’s stressed, she plans. Graduation parties. Baby showers. Hell, you should have seen what she did to our neighbor’s bar mitzvah.”

  His lips twitch with an approximation of humor. “And you know we ain’t even Jewish.”