Read Online Finding Sadie (Los Rancheros #0.5) by Brandace Morrow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brandace Morrow
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onto him harder than before. He likes it. I move my hips onto his as he pulls my hair to curtain us in gold. It’s only us under here, our breaths gasping, our moans getting caught under the screen.
I grind against him, where I need the friction. Batty lifts my ass in a rhythm that is ours, hard but smooth, building us to the point where we can’t help but explode.
My head comes up as my back arches away from him. He keeps moving me as I splinter like a house that’s in the direct path of our force. My eyes move back to his as he shouts his orgasm loudly. The sound echoes in my near empty house. His eyes are on me, watching my hair, my chest, where we’re connected. He gets off on me, and he sees me. But which me? There seem to be a few these days.
I leave him before he can leave me, pulling away to sit back on the coffee table. We catch our breath, our eyes locked, and I almost think we’re going to go again because of the look he’s giving me. But he looks down, stands then walks away.
When he comes back from flushing the condom I’m fully dressed and ready, though still sitting on the table. He’s magnificent naked. His muscles shine with a sheen of sweat and his hair is in every direction from my fingers. He pulls his boxers on, then jeans silently. When he’s slipping his shoes on, he finally looks at me.
“She didn’t get to see the lights?” I say abruptly.
“The what?”
“Rachel.” The name alone guts me again. “She didn’t see the Christmas lights we hung today.”
I watch his jaw clench, then his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “She sees them.”
I study him, thinking about the angel on his chest, but his face is stone and gives away nothing. “Do you believe that?”
“I have to,” he says before turning and walking out.
My eyes follow his bare back as he leaves, his shirt fisted in his hand. He shuts the door quietly, but when the lock catches, I still flinch. I look around at my empty house, the house I always wanted, and think about how much happier I was with a dying girl.
I walk over to the staircase and pick up the green wig and tiara, combing it with my fingers until it’s smooth. Moving back to the empty shelf, I position everything until it is fanned out, the tiara set just right.
Then I turned off the lights.
I feel hung over. My head is stuffed with cotton, and I’m nauseous. My stomach is growling, which just makes the whole thing worse. Plus I don’t have my keys, or credit cards, for that matter.
I stomp down the stairs, my foul mood officially in the Popper zone of red as what I theorized last night is my barometer-of-self. Six days out of the week, I’ll ignore on a good day, terrorizing people on the bad. But for two Sundays in a row I’ve introduced myself as Sadie, answered to Sadie, and been more nice than I can remember being since I started middle school.
Most of the time, I’m putting on an act for people, giving them what they want from the lead singer of a grunge band. But on Sundays I give them what they want to. Except at night. When Batty is in my house, in me, all of that is real. Is there a middle ground? Or is there an option where he can wear me like a top hat for the rest of his life?
I snort, almost falling off the bottom step when my eyes land on the kitchen island. I run the short distance and rip open my purse. The purse that’s supposed to be at the hospital. The purse that should not have been inside of my securely locked house. I check my wallet, but everything looks to be there. I think I finally got him when I can’t find my phone, but it was just at the bottom of the bag.
I fist the leather in my hands and walk to the keypad for the alarm. “Son of a bitch.” The alarm is still set, just like I had it last night. I’m so mad I’m shaking when I turn it off to leave. As soon as I get in my car, I call Brian to get a
I grind against him, where I need the friction. Batty lifts my ass in a rhythm that is ours, hard but smooth, building us to the point where we can’t help but explode.
My head comes up as my back arches away from him. He keeps moving me as I splinter like a house that’s in the direct path of our force. My eyes move back to his as he shouts his orgasm loudly. The sound echoes in my near empty house. His eyes are on me, watching my hair, my chest, where we’re connected. He gets off on me, and he sees me. But which me? There seem to be a few these days.
I leave him before he can leave me, pulling away to sit back on the coffee table. We catch our breath, our eyes locked, and I almost think we’re going to go again because of the look he’s giving me. But he looks down, stands then walks away.
When he comes back from flushing the condom I’m fully dressed and ready, though still sitting on the table. He’s magnificent naked. His muscles shine with a sheen of sweat and his hair is in every direction from my fingers. He pulls his boxers on, then jeans silently. When he’s slipping his shoes on, he finally looks at me.
“She didn’t get to see the lights?” I say abruptly.
“The what?”
“Rachel.” The name alone guts me again. “She didn’t see the Christmas lights we hung today.”
I watch his jaw clench, then his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “She sees them.”
I study him, thinking about the angel on his chest, but his face is stone and gives away nothing. “Do you believe that?”
“I have to,” he says before turning and walking out.
My eyes follow his bare back as he leaves, his shirt fisted in his hand. He shuts the door quietly, but when the lock catches, I still flinch. I look around at my empty house, the house I always wanted, and think about how much happier I was with a dying girl.
I walk over to the staircase and pick up the green wig and tiara, combing it with my fingers until it’s smooth. Moving back to the empty shelf, I position everything until it is fanned out, the tiara set just right.
Then I turned off the lights.
I feel hung over. My head is stuffed with cotton, and I’m nauseous. My stomach is growling, which just makes the whole thing worse. Plus I don’t have my keys, or credit cards, for that matter.
I stomp down the stairs, my foul mood officially in the Popper zone of red as what I theorized last night is my barometer-of-self. Six days out of the week, I’ll ignore on a good day, terrorizing people on the bad. But for two Sundays in a row I’ve introduced myself as Sadie, answered to Sadie, and been more nice than I can remember being since I started middle school.
Most of the time, I’m putting on an act for people, giving them what they want from the lead singer of a grunge band. But on Sundays I give them what they want to. Except at night. When Batty is in my house, in me, all of that is real. Is there a middle ground? Or is there an option where he can wear me like a top hat for the rest of his life?
I snort, almost falling off the bottom step when my eyes land on the kitchen island. I run the short distance and rip open my purse. The purse that’s supposed to be at the hospital. The purse that should not have been inside of my securely locked house. I check my wallet, but everything looks to be there. I think I finally got him when I can’t find my phone, but it was just at the bottom of the bag.
I fist the leather in my hands and walk to the keypad for the alarm. “Son of a bitch.” The alarm is still set, just like I had it last night. I’m so mad I’m shaking when I turn it off to leave. As soon as I get in my car, I call Brian to get a
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