energy that zipped through her limbs as Rafe tugged the gusset of her panties aside and put his talented mouth on her.
Tongue teasing over sensitive skin, he stole her breath away with each slow, deliberate stroke. And when he slid his fingers in and pumped lazily, Laurel gasped and moaned and rocked toward him.
A low chuckle rose even as he continued the sensual assault, and pleasure struck in one unending wave. Laurel attempted to loosen her fingers, her grip in his hair too tight, too rough. He didn’t seem to mind, though, his hands now cupping her butt. Rafe pressed his mouth even tighter against her sensitive skin and pushed her orgasm into overdrive.
The echo of blood pounding in her ears still remained when she opened her eyes to discover she was flat on her back in their bed. Rafe grinned from where he lay beside her. One hand possessively cupped her breast as he leaned up on the other elbow and stared into her eyes.
“Wow.” Laurel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That was wild.”
“We’re just getting started.” His words came out rough, needy, and when he rolled over her, Laurel welcomed him. Opening her thighs to cradle him closer. She wrapped her legs around his lean, muscular hips, rocking his rigid cock against her sex.
She tugged his shoulders until he moved toward her, close enough to join their lips together and kiss him with everything in her.
Being loved by Rafe was everything she’d ever wanted. Loving Rafe back was the thing that gave her the most pleasure.
As she moved under him, teasing and touching until he couldn’t wait any longer and joined them together in the most intimate way possible, her heart swelled with happiness.
This was home. Not the physical house, but where her heart lived. With Rafe. Always and forever.
Coleman Memory Book
~Tamara (Whiskey Creek) Stone~
I remember the talking. The out-of-the-blue conversations that sometimes made life turn on a dime.
We talked while on horseback, and in trucks, and on porches. Talked over cake and way too many cups of tea at Auntie Dana’s and Auntie Kate’s houses.
We talked late at night while coyote howls carried on the air all over Whiskey Creek ranch. Even though I don’t live there anymore, I can close my eyes and picture clear as day the horses racing over the land, the Rockies in the distance, my sisters’ voices and their laughter ringing around me.
We talked the wrong way at times. Raised voices. Shouts. Or silence, while we also refused to listen. Or, as in my case, refused to speak and turned away instead of trying to make it better. That’s a hard confession considering how radically I insisted on doing what’s right in other ways.
But the good memories are growing again, and that’s what I want to share as my part of this memory book. Families are sometimes hard, but they’re precious. They’re worth fighting for.
A lot of times we screwed up in spite of trying to be there for each other. But if we listen harder and speak the truth with love, we can slowly change to a better way.
[Images: tea cups on rustic wood table, sliced cake on plate. A faded photo of a trio of young girls on horseback. A brightly-coloured new photo of George Coleman surrounded by his grown daughters and grandchildren, a slightly shocked yet pleased expression on his face.]
13
Mark’s conversation with Laurel had been the strangest and most unexpected conversation ever. Not to mention the most infuriating.
Still, he had things to accomplish that couldn’t be put off any longer. He bundled up all his frustration and headed over to Whiskey Creek.
He hadn’t expected to stay at the house with Trevor and Becky. And while all he had were a few bits of contact, the one letter George had sent him not even a month ago had been enough to make this the right decision.
It wasn’t late enough in the day to be sure his brother would be home, but as Mark drove into the parking area outside the horse barn, George stepped into the sunshine. He glanced over and examined Mark’s truck with interest before striding toward him.
Mark took a deep breath, opened the door, and slipped to the ground beside his vehicle.
Three steps away, George nearly tripped over his own feet, shooting upright. “Mark?”
“Sorry I didn’t call first—”
That was all he got out before being trapped in a hug so tight, he could barely breathe.
George squeezed the living daylights out of him,