40. Half Hunter, 100 Perfect
Chapter 40
Half Hunter, 100% Perfect
MEGAN
I step into the penthouse as the silver elevator doors slide shut behind me, my thoughts a tangled mess, knotted and frayed from the conversation I just had. The weight of Naomi’s words presses against my skull like a headache I can’t shake.
Hunter glances up from the couch, his storm-gray eyes lifting, his mouth curving into a small smile as I drop my bags onto the floor with an unceremonious thud.
“Hey, how’d it go today?” he asks, his deep voice laced with curiosity.
“Fine.” The word comes out sharper than I intend as I kick off my shoes, the force of it echoing the frustration bubbling beneath my skin.
His brow quirks slightly. “Just ‘fine’?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind is too tangled in Naomi’s voice, in the excuses, the apologies, the tangled web of guilt and regret that I don’t know how to untangle.
Instead, I walk to the kitchen, reaching for the bottle of cabernet on the counter. The deep ruby liquid swirls in my glass as I pour myself a generous serving.
The scent of simmering tomato sauce and fresh basil fills the air—warm, rich, comforting. It should soothe me.
But it doesn’t.
Not when my thoughts are a storm I can’t escape.
When I turn, Hunter is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me carefully.
“You hungry?” he asks. “Lena made us something.”
“That was nice of her.” I take a slow sip of my wine, letting it burn its way down. “Where’s Deuce?”
“Asleep. He just had a bottle.”
I peek into our son’s room, my heart clenching as I take in the tiny, perfect boy lying peacefully in his crib.
It’s a cruel irony—how something so pure and whole came from someone as messed up as me.
Then, as if reading my thoughts, I remember.
Deuce is half Hunter.
That’s why he’s so perfect.
“Want to talk about it?” Hunter’s voice is gentle, but the weight behind it is heavy.
I close my eyes, grip the edge of the crib for grounding, then let out a slow breath before turning back to him.
“No.” My voice is quieter this time, softer. But when I see the flicker of hurt in his expression, I reach for him, needing him to understand. “Not now.”
He nods slowly, his gaze searching mine, always so damn patient with me— something no one else in my life has ever been.
Hunter doesn’t push. He never does. Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his solid chest.
Even through the tangled mess in my head, his warmth seeps into my skin. I let out a shaky breath, letting him hold me together when I feel like I might fall apart.
“I just need you,” I whisper against his neck.
His hands flex around my waist, his breath catching slightly at the urgency in my voice.
In one swift motion, he lifts me onto the counter, the wine glass forgotten as it clatters beside us.
His mouth captures mine in a deep, searing kiss, and I kiss him back with a desperation that surprises even me—like I need to drown in him, like I need to erase everything else.
I don’t want tenderness.
I don’t want soft words or whispered reassurances.
I want Hunter.
I want this.
Raw. Consuming. Something that burns away everything else.
And he understands.
His hands grip my thighs, pulling me flush against him, matching my intensity, feeding my hunger.
In one motion, he hoists me up, lightly patting my ass before carrying me toward our bedroom. Each step he takes is a heartbeat pounding out all the words I can’t say—to Naomi, to my father, to his wife, to my sister.
I don’t need words.
I need him.
We crash onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and heat, a desperate collision of need and escape. My fingers claw at his shirt, at my clothes, until there’s nothing between us but bare skin and urgency.
I lose myself in the sensation—the press of his body against mine, the weight of him anchoring me to the present, keeping me from drowning in the past.
His breath is hot against my ear, his voice husky as he whispers my name.
“Megan?”
I know what he’s asking.
“I’m okay,” I whisper back. Even though it’s only half true.
But he doesn’t push.
He never does.
When we finish, I press myself against him, burying myself in the comfort of his warmth, desperate for the contact to last longer than it ever does.
If I could crawl inside him, I would.
I always feel safest when our bodies are intertwined, when there’s nowhere else to run but into his arms.
Hunter strokes my back, his touch gentler now, grounding.
The quiet aftermath is filled only with our mingled breath, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
After a long silence, he speaks.
“You sure you don’t want to talk?” His voice is low, careful.
My throat tightens.
“Not yet.”
I rest my head against his chest, his steady rise and fall lulling me into something that almost feels like peace.
“Whatever it is,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into my hair, “I’m here.”
I cling to those words like a lifeline.
Hunter is the one constant in my life.
I can’t wait to marry him, to make our bond legal.
I’ve been dragging my feet with planning, too focused on finishing my piece for the exhibit—but I need to fix that.
My relationship is just as important as my art.
Maybe more.
Hunter doesn’t normally offer words of comfort when we make love. We both prefer dirty talk, teasing smirks and breathless laughter.
But this is different.
This is him, worried about me.
I decide to change the mood—to deflect. It’s the coward’s way out… but it works.
“Why didn’t you tell me Lars had a daughter?” I whisper.
His chest rises and falls before he answers.
“It wasn’t my news to share.”
A pause. Then—“Is that what’s wrong?”
I hesitate. “A little.”
His fingers trace slow circles on my back. “Why?”
I swallow. “If you can keep something like that from me… what else can you hide away in that head of yours?”
Hunter shifts slightly, tilting my chin so our eyes meet. His expression is unreadable. Deep. Knowing. Unshaken.
“Let’s make one thing clear,” he says, his voice dark with certainty. “You are mine to love and protect until the day I die. But there will always be things I don’t tell you because of that.”
My stomach tightens.
“Everyone has secrets, Megan.” His thumb brushes over my cheek. “And getting yourself all upset over things that don’t concern you isn’t a productive way to spend your time.”
“Is that right?” I bite back.
His lips curl slightly. “I get that having someone love you is scary, baby, but if you keep running from it… you’ll never know just how good it can be.”
“And you know this how?”
His gaze darkens. “Because since I let you in, I’ve never been this happy in my fucking life.”
The tears spill before I even feel them coming.
And for the first time, I let myself believe that I deserve this.
I deserve him.