Chapter 43
Ava
“I’ll be back in the morning,” Gabe says, slinging an arm around me and kissing my forehead as we stand there in quiet awe.
Three kids. Six blankets. Every pillow we could find. Ten, I think.
They’re all asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace. Sweet little angels and their trail of discarded socks.
Harrison checks on them one last time.
“Why don’t they use the spare rooms?” Gabe asks, lowering his voice. “There are enough of them.”
“They’re chasing fun. What’s your excuse?”
“Same thing,” he says, waggling his brows, clearly eager to retreat to his half-empty man cave.
“Why so anxious to leave?” I tease. “Got a hot date?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I love how you think there’s only one.”
“Yes, ladies. Meet Gabriel Alvarez. New York’s most eligible man-whore,” I say, messing up his hair.
He laughs, but his hand drifts to the bracelet at his wrist, thumb worrying the bent metal clasp he keeps fixing.
I ask the one thing I shouldn’t. “Have you heard from Isabel?”
He’s been quietly pining over her for years. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong frenemy.
The kind of love that’s obvious to everyone but them.
“I have. She’s moving to New York.”
My interest sharpens. “That’s wonderful.”
He sees it, hesitates, then adds quietly, “She’s getting married.”
“Oh.”
Gabe reaches for the door. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he says, kissing my cheek.
Before he gets too far, I catch his sleeve. “Can you grab some pain au chocolat, an apple tarte Tatin, and maybe a few white chocolate pistachio croissants from the bakery on your way back?”
He snorts. “Wow. How very Hollywood of you. What’s wrong with a dozen day-old donuts ifrom the bodega on the corner?”
I consider this. Then nod. “Get those, too.”
He laughs as he heads down the hall, waving behind him.
I close the door softly and turn back toward the fire. The kids are still sprawled there, peaceful and relaxed in sleep, and the tight feeling in my chest sharpens. Time is running out.
Tick. Tick. Tick…
I slip into the kitchen to clean up, mostly to give my nervous energy somewhere to go.
I walk in and stop in my tracks.
Harrison has beaten me to it. His tall, muscular frame looks unexpectedly natural here, moving with quiet, flawless precision.
Dishes rinsed. Counters wiped. The last of the cups lined neatly in the cupboard.
I get the sense he would’ve ushered the kids home hours ago, but they wanted to stay.
And I didn’t have it in me to say no.
Harrison wasn’t saying no either. All that hardened steel, undone by three pairs of puppy-dog eyes.
But since our eyes met hours ago, he’s been deliberate about it. Increasing the distance. Putting enough space between us to stack eight planets.
And I hate it.
I straighten my spine and put on my big girl panties.
“I’m sorry about today,” I say.
He turns slowly. “Sorry?”
The tremor hits hard enough that I have to brace myself on the counter. What will he think of me? “I posted my location,” I say carefully.
“What?” I can’t read him, but the word feels brittle. Like one wrong move will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between us.
And I’m about to hurl a boulder at it.
“Everyone was texting,” I say, like maybe if I explain it fast enough, it won’t hurt as much. “Calling. They were all so worried. Thought I’d been abducted. By aliens.” A dry laugh slips out. “Or my…”
I don’t say stalker. He doesn’t need that.
That’s my nuclear reactor. My mess to contain.
When I’m brave enough to look at him, he doesn’t smile. Not even close. And the ache burrowing in my gut deepens.
“Myra was losing her mind. Kali wouldn’t stop calling. It was only supposed to go to family and close friends. But I must’ve hit the wrong button, and…” My voice chips. I swallow. “If anything had happened to you…”
“Me?” His brow furrows. “You’re worried about me.”
“Of course, I’m worried about you.” The words rush out now. “I’m used to this. You’re not. And the kids…” I shake my head. “I’m used to this.”
“Nobody gets used to this.”
The truth lands hard and swift. He’s right.
I twist my fingers as the tears press closer.
Don’t cry, Ava.
I draw a breath, and put on a brave face, and say what I have to say.
“I can handle it,” I say, chin up. “But the last thing you need is my mess in your life. Or me, for that matter. I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?”
I nod. “That’s right. First thing in the morning, before—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
His kiss crashes into me, sudden and fierce, like he’s been holding himself back all night and finally gave up. One hand slides around my waist. The other cups my jaw, like the only oxygen left in the world is behind my lips.
“I thought you were mad at me,” I whisper when he pulls back just enough to look at me.
“There you go, Pix.” His voice is low. Steady. “I’m mad at everyone in the world but you. I’m mad at a million fans who think they own pieces of you.” His lips trace the scratch from earlier. “I’m mad at the paparazzi for never giving you a fucking minute of peace.”
Oh. This man.
I slide a palm along his scruffy cheek. He turns his face into it, pressing a slow, reverent kiss there.
“And I’m mad at myself,” he adds quietly, “for not wrapping you in ten pounds of bubble wrap and locking you in the house. Permanently.”
I giggle as he kisses my brow. Then my cheek.
“But you? I could never be mad at you.” His forehead rests against mine. “I stopped wanting more a long time ago. Stopped believing parts of my heart would ever grow back.” His breath comes uneven, ghosting across my lips. “But with you, I want more. I want this.”
He kisses me.
And it’s slow and devastating. It’s everything.
“I want you, Ava Alvarez. Or nothing at all.”
My heart stutters, and I forget how to breathe.
We’ve touched each other.
Had mind-blowing sex together.
But when all the power in his touch draws a soft line along my cheek, down my nape, and tangles through my hair, my knees go weak.
He tethers me to him, and I can’t push him away. I don’t have the strength.
I wouldn’t even if I did.
“I need you, Pix.”
The world tilts as he lifts me up, rushes me to the counter, and spreads my legs.
Then, without warning, he stops. “This is wrong,” he says.
Oh, God.
While I need him so much it hurts, he’s coming to his senses.
I’m already preparing to crawl into a hole and die when he exhales hard and adds, “The kids. They could come in any minute. The door doesn’t lock.”
Shit. He’s right.
His eyes darken, a wildfire blazing behind the blue.
I bite my lip. “My room?”
“You’re goddamn right, your room.”
We’re there in ten seconds flat.
“Naked. Now,” he orders.
Yes, sir.
I tear off his shirt and jeans, stripping him in a rush.
He tears off my dress. Not like last time. No gentleness. No control. Just the sound of fabric giving way under his rough hands.
Christ, I’m pretty sure it’s in shreds.
So fucking hot.
Harrison’s mouth claims the curve of my throat. Lips. Tongue. Teeth.
We topple onto the bed, him on his back, the thick, girthy length of him is in my hands. I stroke, and his back arches.
I lick once.
“Fuck,” he moans, then, pulls me up on him. “I’m not fucking your mouth, Pix.” Two fingers glide between my legs, and slide in. “I’m fucking your pretty pink pussy.”
God, the way this man talks does things to me.
He takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks as he works me, in and out.
In. And. Out.
There’s so much pleasure in his touch. When his thumb rubs circles on my clit, I’m so wet.
“Don’t you dare come.”
So bossy.
His fingers ease out. He brushes his tip back and forth through my wet, swollen sex.
Both hands lock on my hips, control so tight, he’s trembling. “Are you ready, Pix?”
“Are you still talking, Lumberjack?”
His laughter rumbles, unrestrained.
He shoves in deep, and we both have to catch our breaths. This is so good. Too good.
And so damn deep…
We free-fall into a rhythm, our bodies taking over.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Pix,” he whispers, breathlessly, heat radiating off his broad chest and ripped abs.
He’s the beautiful one. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Every time I try to speed us up, he reins me in, drawing it out. Guiding us away from the brink.
Clinging to borrowed time.
“Tighter,” he growls, near feral.
I clench hard and ride this man like Lady Godiva.
I bite my lip, trying to hold back.
I can’t.
My back arches, and heat rushes through me in a violent, dizzy bloom.
“Oh, God,” I cry out, so loud his hand finds my mouth.
He flips me onto my back, his breath across my collarbone. “Shhh.”
I whisper, “Harder, Lumberjack.”
That does it.
He pins me to the mattress, driving deeper and deeper until every thought dissolves into pure sensation.
I cling to him, legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer and taking everything he has.
“Look at me,” he pants.
I do.
And that look. God.
It is not gentle. It is not unsure. It is a man who has been starved for too long.
My pleasure hits like a tidal wave.
His follows in a rocky current, relentless and hard, then settles like the sea.
Our breaths break apart.
For a moment, we just exist. Tangled. Quiet. Held.
And I know tomorrow, I will feel him everywhere.
He holds me close, nuzzling into my neck, and says, “When do you go back to LA?”
I don’t want this moment reduced to calendars or geography or the inevitable goodbye.
I turn in his arms and press my mouth to his. “Stop talking, Lumberjack,” I whisper.
And we kiss. A burn so slow it feels like outrunning the night, only to be scorched by the sun.
We kiss and hold each other, fuck and make love. Suspended somewhere between hunger and tenderness.
Right up until dawn.
When our borrowed time runs out.