But this--the wildness between them--was something they could claim and control and celebrate.
"I need you." Spencer's growl cut through her, his tone affecting her as intimately as a caress.
"You have me." Her voice came out raspy with need. "Please, Spencer. I--"
"Yes. God, yes." He captured her in a kiss again, and this time, his free hand slid under her tank top, his fingers teasing her bare breast and sending ripples of electricity rolling through her body.
Shamelessly, she ground against his pelvis, still tightly clad in denim. He was hard, his erection straining, and, dammit, she didn't want to wait. With her mouth, she nipped at his lower lip, and as she did, she used her fingers to fumble open the button on his jeans and carefully lower his zipper.
"Christ," he whispered when she reached in to free him from his boxers. "If you want to go slow, I think I just might die."
"Fast," she agreed as his fingers slid up her thigh, then under the fleece of her shorts. She was desperately wet, and he teased her with his fingertip, playing with her clit and making her breath come in gasps.
"Please," she begged. "I want you inside me."
He complied, thrusting a finger into her, which she rode shamelessly, all the while telling him that his finger wasn't what she had in mind.
"Then show me," he teased, and she reached to untie the drawstring of her shorts. His hand stilled hers. "No," he said, then tugged the crotch aside. "Like this."
The words were like an order, and she obeyed willingly, rubbing against his cock until the head was at her core, then slowly--so deliciously, painfully slowly--easing him inside. She wanted to ride him slow, to make it last for both of them, but that was out of the question.
Her body was demanding hard and fast--and so was Spencer. He had his hands on her hips, and with each of her thrusts, he drew her down hard, her tender flesh rubbing against the denim he still wore as his length filled her, the sensations inside and against her clit sending her spiraling higher and higher.
"I can't wait," he said, and she cried out that she couldn't either.
She came wildly, violently, her body breaking apart in the most wondrous way, and then slowly and sweetly coming back together in his arms before drifting away on a sea of contentment.
She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew was that she was alone.
"Spencer?" Her voice came out low, groggy, and she pushed herself up on her elbows as she searched the dark room for him.
A sliver of light crept out from around the bathroom door, which had been left cracked slightly. Immediately, a wave of relief washed over her, and only then did she realize how on edge she'd been upon waking without him.
"Silly," she whispered, intending to roll over and go to sleep, but then she heard him. The sobs coming from the bathroom. The anguish of losing a man who'd been like a father to him for so much of his childhood. And the anguish of losing his father, too. Not to death, but to dementia, the victim of a stroke that had knocked the old man down the day Richie's first appeal had been denied.
For a moment, she considered going to him. But she stayed in bed, the sheet pulled tight around her and her eyes shut tight as she prayed for a way to save Richie. And by saving him, also saving the man she loved.
Brooke had made peace with the fact that her parents weren't coming to the wedding. Her mother had avoided the real issue, saying that she was on call all week at the hospital and couldn't get away. A ridiculous excuse since the wedding was being held at a friend's house in Central Austin, a short drive from the hospital where Brooke's mother was on staff.
Her father hadn't bothered trying to wrap his absence in a bullshit excuse. He'd simply said that she was a spoiled little fool who didn't appreciate everything he did for her. And that if she was going to marry a man who came from that kind of family, then she was on her own.
She'd been okay with that, though it hurt to know that her parents were so quick to cut themselves off from the little girl they'd always claimed to love so fiercely.
Still, she had no illusions about her father. Randall Hamlin saw the world in black and white, not shades of gray. And that was a perspective that had fueled every trial he'd ever won--and so far, that was each and every one of them.
So she'd been unprepared when he arrived at her apartment the night before the wedding.
"You're still determined to go through with this charade, I assume?"
"Daddy, I love you. But I'm done. If you came to try to talk me out of the wedding, then just go away. I have some girlfriends coming over in couple of hours, and we're going to celebrate by drinking wine and watching chick flicks. I really don't need you in my head. Okay?"
She started to close the door, but he stepped over the threshold, a hand thrust out to keep the door open. "That's not why I came. Please, baby girl. Hear me out."
She almost insisted he leave, but it had been so long since he'd used that endearment that her defenses went down. Besides, no matter what else he might be, he was her father. And some desperate, needy part of her wanted to fix things between them.
"Ten minutes," she said, opening the door fully to allow him to enter.
He stepped inside, and before she even had time to offer him a drink, he spoke. "I've been in touch with the governor. I say the word, and he's prepared to grant clemency to Richard Dean."