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When Indya Keller was in Montana, she was mine.
I’d had my heart stomped on a time or two. But there was nothing quite so heartbreaking as seeing Indya cry.
That was how it had always been between us. We belonged to each other.
How I wanted her. How I’d always wanted her.
I fitted my chest against her back. My hands came to her front, flicking that bra away. Then I floated my fingers across her ribs to her breasts. They filled my hands like they’d been made for my palms.
That sound. It filled the room for a perfect moment.
“West. Fuck me. Please.” “You’re the boss.”
Then I took her hand, bringing it to my shaft so she could feel how much I wanted her.
Time vanished. The years between us melted away. The mistakes, the regrets, turned to ash. A century wouldn’t dull this fire.
I stared at the ceiling as the rustle of her clothes sounded from the living room. As the screen door slammed. As the sound of her car disappeared outside. I stared at the ceiling until long after she was gone, listening for the echoes of her moans. But they were gone too.
“Do you like wine?” “Sometimes. I prefer whiskey.” “We’ve never had a drink together,” she murmured, walking to the kitchen. No, we’d never had a drink together. She didn’t know that my favorite whiskey was Pendleton. I didn’t know if she drank only red wine or if she also liked white. I didn’t know what she liked in her morning coffee, if she even liked coffee.
God, I would miss him. Was that silly? We saw each other once a year at most. He didn’t know that my favorite color was yellow. I didn’t know if he ate his french fries with ketchup or with ranch or plain.
The smile on Indya’s face flatlined my heart.
She looked like the woman I’d known years and years ago. Her smile was one I hadn’t seen enough in the past month.
