Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

24

25 weeks

Worst Way - Riley Green

M y heart’s pounding so loud it drowns out everything else as I watch Michael go for the door.

I grab his arm. “Let me.”

“Imogen, you don’t know what he’s like when he gets like this. He wouldn’t want—”

“I don’t care.” I need to do this. “Just let me go find him.”

Michael looks defeated, his face tight as he lets out a heavy sigh. He nods, and I don’t waste another second. I run off, heading first to the granny flat, but he’s not there. His car is still parked outside, though, so where the hell did he go? I walk around to the back, and across the yard, I spot a faint light coming from the shed. My feet drag against the grass, belly weighing me down like an anchor as I cross the yard. The shed door cracked open, spilling out some light. I’m almost there when glass shatters inside—loud, sharp, like a warning.

“Harrison!” I push the door open, spotting the blood on his hand instantly. “What the fuck happened?”

“Get out,” he growls, not even looking at me. His whole frame vibrates with anger. “Leave, Imogen.”

“No,” I shoot back, closing the door behind me. “Not until you talk to me.”

He doesn’t. He moves instead, throwing another wrench into the chaos of tools and broken glass. The sound clangs through the shed, but it’s nothing compared to the storm twisting across his face.

“Stop!” My voice cracks as I plead. Fear rises in my chest. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

“Leave!” The word rips from him like a roar, the force of it stopping me in my tracks. His head jerks toward me, and that’s when I see them—his eyes, bloodshot and glossy, and the streaks of tears carving through the anger on his face. He’s unraveling right in front of me, and I’m not sure what to do with it.

“Shit.” His voice breaks, softer now, like he’s ashamed. “I didn’t mean—fuck—I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Before I can even process the words, he’s moving, crushing me into his arms. He’s holding on like I’m a lifeline, like letting go might break him. Glass crunches under his shoes, and his heart’s racing—wild and chaotic against me. His breath hits my neck, all sharp and broken, spilling whispered apologies that sting to hear. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

“Stop apologising,” I mutter, gripping his shirt. My voice wavers—dammit, I hate that it does. “It’s okay to be angry, Harrison. Be angry. Just don’t… don’t bottle this up. Talk to me. Let me help.”

His laugh is barely a sound. “I don’t fucking need help.”

“Alright, then, don’t call it help. Call it venting or yelling at me or whatever makes your ego feel better. Just talk. Tell me what’s going on.”

His jaw clenches. “You can guess, Imogen.”

“No.” I tug at his shirt like it’ll drag the truth out of him. “I don’t want to guess. I want to know . From you.”

He flinches, then his eyes shut tight. “I saw him. A few days ago. Then today, out of nowhere, he fucking calls me. Him.” The word comes out like poison. “Why now? Why can’t he just stay gone?”

Shit. My stomach knots, but I keep my grip on him. “What did he want?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice drops, hollow and flat. “Nothing he says matters. He’s nothing.”

His shoulders sag like the fight’s been sucked out of him, and that—God, that’s almost worse than the anger. His hand is still bleeding, a steady drip of red down his knuckles. I grab a cloth and wrap it, my hands shaking just enough to piss me off. He doesn’t stop me.

“Sorry you had to see that.” His voice is barely above a whisper now.

“Don’t.” I meet his eyes, force him to look at me. “Don’t apologise for her. Not for this. Let’s go inside, alright? We’ll figure it out there. Together.” He pulls me in, his grip firm but not rough, his face so close I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

“I don’t want to talk.” His breath is warm against my skin. My heart skips, betraying me.

“What do you want, then?” It’s out before I can stop it, half a challenge, half a whisper.

“You.” One word, sharp and electric. Then his hands are on my face, and his mouth crashes into mine.

For a second, everything disappears—his lips, hot and urgent, erase it all. I’m clutching his shoulders, anchored in the storm of him. The sting in his bandaged hand pulls me back. “Harrison—your hand—”

“Don’t care.” His voice is hoarse. “I just need you, Imogen.”

His words hit like a match to dry grass.

My head’s a mess, but my body’s already nodding. He’s kissing me again before I can catch my breath, and then I’m off the ground, his arms around me, the door slamming shut behind us. He carries me like I’m weightless, laying me on his bed like I’m something fragile. It’s unnerving, the way he looks at me, desperate and raw, like I’m the answer to every unspoken question. His hands skate down my sides, his touch grounding me when my head’s spinning a million miles an hour. “I need you,” he whispers, his lips brushing mine.

His shirt hits the floor first, and every ounce of irritation I’ve ever had for him evaporates, burned alive by the heat crawling up my spine. I should stop this—should say something, anything—but his eyes lock onto mine, steady and unrelenting, like I’m the only thing keeping him from coming apart. His hands grip the hem of my shirt, and for a second, the air between us feels too thick to breathe.

He moves slow—controlled, deliberate. Not the chaos from before, but something softer, heavier. He peels the fabric away, his gaze never wavering, like he’s searching for a crack in me he can’t afford to miss. I don’t flinch. I let him look, let him see.

“You have me,” I whisper back.

My chest tightens as I watch him. Months of sparring, glaring, pretending I hated him—it never showed me this, the raw, unfiltered ache bleeding through him now. It’s like staring into something I shouldn’t see, something breaking apart and holding me hostage in the best and worst ways. And I let it. Let him. Because stopping this feels impossible. His hands move lower, pulling at the last piece of clothing between us.

Harrison settles between my legs, his breaths ragged, his eyes dark enough to make my stomach flip. His mouth crashes into mine again, all teeth and heat, leaving me gasping. It’s a kiss that says everything and nothing—a little bit of promise, a little bit punishment, and way too much for me to handle.

Then he’s filling me in one deep, relentless push, and I don’t know if I want to scream or cry or beg him to give me a second to catch up. He moves slow, precise, like every thrust is deliberate, meant to keep me teetering on the edge of something I’m not sure I’ll survive.

“You’re so fucking perfect, Immy.” His words rasp against my skin, and it sends a bolt of lightning through me. Perfect . I’m not. But the way he says it, the way he moves—it’s like he believes it, and for this moment, I almost do, too.

“You’re like a dream,” he mutters. His hand stays firm at the back of my neck, holding me close like I might bolt—not that I could with the way he’s got me pinned, his arms caging me as his hips move, slow and deliberate. My head tips back, a curse slipping out before it turns into his name. Missionary. Fucking missionary. How is this the most intimate, ruinous thing I’ve ever felt? Good god.

Sex with Harrison is… everything . Too much, too good, too consuming. And this—this has every chance of wrecking me. Because suddenly, his words from that one reckless night—the ones I brushed off, laughed at—are clawing their way back, ready to bite me in the fucking ass.

My head tips back, and I bite down on a curse that turns into his name instead. “Fuck, Harrison—”

My orgasm claws its way up through me. It’s too much, but not enough, and I squeeze my eyes shut as it ripples, drawn out like never before. Harrison groans as he follows, hips stuttering before he stills completely. Warmth spreads between us, and for a moment, we just lie there, tangled and heaving. I twitch, but his hand presses me back down.

“Don’t. Please, stay?” he says hesitantly.

“Okay,” I murmur, resting against him. Just for a minute. Maybe two.

After we clean up, he’s leaning back against the bedhead, and I’m curled against him, the room quiet except for the moonlight creeping through his window. His fingers absently play with my hair.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

He hesitates. “Just for being here.”

I can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at my lips. His hand rests on my back, and his breathing evens out. But my mind? Racing. I feel his heartbeat, his warmth, and realize he’s holding me differently tonight. More protectively. I tense when he shifts, lowering himself to rest his head against my belly, his lips pressing gently to my skin. Goosebumps follow in the wake of his kiss, my breath catching as I try to ignore the flutter in my chest. His voice is soft, barely a whisper, “You’ve got me, Immy. Always.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. This is Harrison. The one who hides behind a grin, keeps it light, never lets anything get too deep. But tonight… Tonight, there’s something raw. Something vulnerable. And that messes with me because if he’s starting to feel more... maybe I am, too. I don’t know what to do with that.

Not when he’s the last person I ever thought I’d fall for.