Chapter 18
18
RAE
I steer Hayden back in the direction of the stables later.
It seems like the best option after he’d closed that scrapbook and kept his eyes shut for what felt like forever. Even now, with his eyes open, I’m not sure he sees where he’s going or realises that we aren’t alone on this slow and stumbling journey.
Mitch walks with us as far as the chapel, talking to him the whole time, one arm around Hayden’s shoulders, the other around Justin’s, and I’ve heard the man boom enough times to know this quiet tone is different. Low and soothing. At least I hope it’s soothing for Hayden.
My own head buzzes with what I didn’t expect to hear or witness after getting that need to ask you something message.
I have news to share with Hayden as well, but now I’m so fucking glad I didn’t. Glad, too, that I got to see what filled the pages of this scrapbook I carry, otherwise Mitch stopping now beside the chapel door and then cupping Hayden’s face with both hands would have zero context.
I’m still not entirely sure why Mitch tells him, “You haven’t done a single thing that your dad wouldn’t understand, mate. He would have coached you through it if he’d been there with you. You were his star before, during, and after. You are right now. You always will be.”
I take a step back, giving them space for a conversation that seems even more private than what I’ve already witnessed.
Hayden’s hand snaps out to stop me, and if this lightning-fast reaction is a measure, no wonder he was scouted.
He doesn’t even need to look to find me. He’s so aware of where I am in relation to him—so certain it’s my hand he needs to hold on to. I’m stopped in my tracks. Then I’m reeled in, a fish on a line, and I don’t usually let myself get hooked when the world is full of bright and shiny sights I haven’t drawn yet, but I can’t fight this hold.
More than that, I don’t want to.
Distance is the opposite of what I want from this big man who I watch crumple, a giant felled by hearing he was cared for, which is bullshit. Everyone loves Hayden and wants to keep him.
Like me.
I’m who reels at that thought all while being pulled even closer to hear Mitch’s next murmur. “You’ve even started to let yourself shine again at what you’re good at lately, haven’t you?”
Shine?
As far as I know, before this morning, Hayden hadn’t touched a football in years, and I get it. There’s a whole world of pain in my past I’m in no hurry to repeat and would never want to.
Only maybe Mitch wasn’t talking about Hayden crashing out of soccer.
He says, “I watched you coach those kids all morning in the clearing. Mate, they fucking light up around you. A little bit of your shine has rubbed off on every single one of them. Where did you learn how to do that?”
I can guess this answer. Hayden confirms it by choking out, “With Dad.”
“Of course you did.” Mitch gives Hayden’s shoulders the kind of shake that would make my head wobble and my ears ring. It barely rocks him, but I’m close enough to see the effect of Mitch’s next rumbling statement. “You getting to shine again is exactly what he would have wanted.”
Hayden’s face creases with emotion, folding. I see it happen the moment Mitch adds, “If you can let yourself enjoy what you excel at, he’ll see your light all the way from heaven.”
I can run with that visual—Hayden’s always shone to me, hasn’t he? Every time I’ve added a little brightness to a doodle, he’s been my inspiration. Even though I’m on a countdown, it’s him who keeps appearing on my paper, and how many times have I drawn him as a guide or caretaker for someone sharing his roots?
And isn’t caretaking exactly what he’s been doing for his sisters from a distance, even if I heard his stepmum say loud and clear that they’d all rather see more of him than of his money.
Now?
He’s the only person who needs taking care of.
Mitch looks down at where Hayden’s hold on my wrist has slipped so our fingers thread, and has to come to the same conclusion. “Take your man home.”
I don’t argue with his your man description. I can’t make a joke out of it, not while a clock is ticking. In fact, I’m pretty sure if anyone tried to take over steering Hayden to safety, I’d fight them for him. I can’t even care if that’s an overreaction. When it comes to him, I’m done with being rational.
Right now, I’m a man on a mission that has me guiding Hayden through a quiet school while fully prepared to push back hard—to growl or snap or snarl if anyone tries to stop him from getting what he needs, which I guess right now is silence.
Peace. That’s what I want for him the most.
Quiet. So he can process.
Only he doesn’t seem to want to be alone once we get to the stables. He misses the lock with his key twice before I take it from him and open the door, but his tight hold on me doesn’t let up, and it’s far from shaky, which I guess makes sense if he’s spent the morning with the kids instead of using power tools.
I can’t help thinking some part of him has got to be shaking after witnessing a conversation that rocked him to his foundation. To his core. To a part of him that matters. My problem is that for all I’m usually a chatty fucker, I don’t know what to say next, or what he needs after getting his chest cracked wide open.
All I can do is crack open my own right along with him.
“Mitch was right, you know? You are brilliant.”
Hayden’s face creases again, so I lead him inside where no one else can follow, and I keep talking.
“Seriously, you’re so fucking brilliant. I think it each time I see you. Every single time I draw you.”
I swallow, not sure if this will be helpful, but fuck it. I place a hand over his heart and push, and yeah, he’s heavier than me, but he goes so easily where I move him.
His back lands against the door, and I step into the space between those long legs of his. “I think it every single time I get to touch you.” I slide a hand under his shirt and reach for the same place that I just shoved him.
His heart hammers under my palm, and he shudders.
He also pulls me closer, and so what if sex isn’t always the answer. I kiss him and guess it’s the right decision.
For him.
His mouth is a hot press against mine, his lips instantly parting, and I know that kind of desperation, don’t I? This fraught and frenzied need to do anything other than think. It’s exactly what I sank into each time the tide washed up tiny life vests. The difference now is that I don’t want to fuck away my fury with some random project worker, or to draw a story to raise cash to stop more kids from sinking.
What I want least of all is a time limit.
With him.
After everything he’s shown me, I want more time with him, not less, and it’s annoying as fuck the news I got this morning means I’ll be leaving even sooner.
It is good news for my project, but after sitting in on today’s conversation, it feels like the worst timing—a missed chance to know even more about him. To fill all those gaps making no sense between how he sees himself and how my pencil or stylus draws him.
It also sparks a different kind of desperation from me. Our kiss deepens enough for both of us to sink into. He’s right here with me, his tongue in my mouth, his arms clinging like I’m his lifeline, which feels desperate enough that I have to check in.
My hand slides down from his chest, heading lower, while the other unthreads our fingers to reach up. I clasp his jaw where his regrowing beard prickles. My other hand does the same along the hardening length of his cock. I squeeze both while double-checking. “You want to?”
Hayden doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no either. A whole new low sound tears from his chest, and his back isn’t against the door anymore.
Mine is.
He drops to his knees, getting his mouth on me so quickly, I have to brace against the doorframe.
I’m meant to be the one giving comfort. His mouth on my dick means I’m almost falling.
Almost?
I already am.
For him.
That has nothing to do with this hot, wet suction, or with the sensation of his teeth dragging where it shouldn’t feel good but actually makes my toes curl. I fell for him at some point I’ll pinpoint later when I’m not fighting the urge to fuck into the softness he offers.
The urge is difficult to resist when he sucks me to full hardness, his grip on my hips tight enough to be bruising. My dick nudges deeper than can be easy for him to take, but he sounds grateful. That’s what slips out, pure and primal, and I’ve never felt more connected.
Not because he blows me.
Because he looks up, checking I’m getting what I need too.
Fuck knows what he sees to make him pull off. All I know is, he’s never sounded hoarser.
“Please.”
His eyes are wet. A tear spills over, and it doesn’t matter if it’s because of what we’re doing or due to what Mitch told him. He needs this—me—and everything else can get in the sea.
I crouch then, my tongue back in his mouth, and I lose my balance. We crash over, and I’m sprawled on his chest, my trousers tangled at my ankles, my spit-wet cock against his, which is still fully covered. Then it’s a race to see who can get undressed the fastest.
I struggle to my feet with him right behind me, our shoes kicked off and clothes discarded, and thank fuck Rowan is busy teaching. There’s no hiding the chaos we leave on the floor behind us or the mess I leave in the bathroom.
Lube topples from the cabinet I dig through. A box of condoms scatters. I tear open a wrapper, my eyes meeting his in the mirror. “I’m fucking you, yeah?”
Hayden doesn’t answer. He’s hot and hard behind me, his mouth locked on the side of my neck and sucking, those sharp teeth back to rasping, which goes straight to my dick. So does all the blood in my brain. I’m hazy about how we got here, even if I’m not about the fact that his cock is a lot against the crease of my arse.
It nudges between my legs, and I clamp my thighs closed around him, pushing back. He lets out an honest-to-god growl. His gaze next locks with mine in the mirror, and I get to see his face crease for a third time, only this time I witness pleasure, and there’s a decision made I’ll go ahead and let future me pay for.
How long has it been since I’ve taken?
He lands a kiss on my shoulder, and the answer doesn’t matter.
I get busy with lube, or I would get busy if my hands didn’t switch roles by shaking. I’m clumsy, but I still manage to reach down and back to clasp that hot, hard thickness until he’s good and slippery.
Then we’re fucking.
Or almost.
I’m braced on one forearm, getting shoved against the counter with his dick between my thighs, and he doesn’t hold back. I guess that is proof of what he needs the most after that conversation. He’s tightly wound, needing release, which has to come out.
I know it hasn’t yet.
I’d see it in this mirror.
Instead, the glass reflects stoicism—strength—and I always knew he had plenty. His next shove slides his cock against my balls in a way that makes my vision narrow. It also shoves me closer to the mirror, where I see a first glimmer of his control finally loosening.
Hayden’s fingers dig into my hips. His own stutter, and he pulls back before surging forward again. This time, his cock slides between my cheeks, the head nudging my hole before skimming past it, and he looks down, watching.
His movements slow then.
I hold my breath at what the mirror shows me.
He’s so fucking gorgeous, rocking so, so close to where I’d take him. And I would, if he pressed any harder than this slow-as-molasses slide. He stares down, captivated, and I can only imagine what he’s seeing. Can only translate that slide turning from slow to glacial as nothing else existing for him than me.
Than us.
He isn’t angsting about the past now. Isn’t doing any preemptive stressing about his future after this harvest season. He’s locked into the here and now, and we might as well be the only people left on the planet.
His dick slides close, and a million nerves send conflicting messages of fuck, yes and hell, no until one wins out and I’m begging.
That’s me grinding out a drunk-sounding, “Yeah, yeah, do it.”
Me who looks up, face flushed and lips bitten scarlet.
And it’s me who spreads his legs wider and who almost has a fucking seizure when he pulls away.
He doesn’t go far. Hayden reaches for the lube and takes me at my word.
He goes for it, and I knew his hands were bigger than mine. I’ve watched them handle an axe and twist willow. Now he twists something in my chest by being just as careful with me as he was with that veil.
My eyes close with each slick knuckle he slides inside me until I repeat what echoed in this shower room once already.
“Do it.”
Hayden rolls on the condom and does. He pushes the head of his dick in, if only for a single smouldering, fire-hot moment. Then he’s gone and my eyes fly open just in time to see him pour more slick in a diamond stream before?—
“Fuck.”
That word stretches out as I stretch too, and the mirror shows his eyelids fluttering closed behind me. It also shows me the crumpling and creasing in his expression smooth out, and that’s what I want for him more than anything, so I push back to take more of him in a hurry, and the world turns white.
I don’t know how long he holds still or how long he runs a hand up and down my back until I can drag a breath in. He’s so fucking patient, or I think he is until my vision comes back online.
I’ve left a handprint on the mirror. Left a bite mark on my forearm. Lube spills over the empty condom wrapper, but he leaves far more on show than me.
I see it in his desperate eye contact even while he’s stock-still behind me. I hear it as well in his rough moan when I shift. All it takes is me saying, “Yeah,” and he lets go. Not of me—his hold is unrelenting. It’s himself he lets go of, and all of that control? That patience?
He’s been holding back a storm, and fuck knows how long he’s contained what batters me now, shoving me against the counter even harder. I can barely take it, and he has to notice.
A blanket wraps me.
He’s plastered over my back, breathing heavily, hot air gusting across my ear along with his promise. “I can stop.”
No, he fucking cannot.
Not now I know what he’s been holding back from me.
I push back and don’t stop until we’re as close as two people can be, and he fucks me again, driving hard and heady, whipping up a blaze that has me shouting something loudly—something strangled—he muffles it with a hand over my mouth as a new sound registers. The school bell rings outside, a signal the lunch break is over and kids might pass the stables on their way to lessons.
I nod my comprehension, and then shake my head at him easing out of me. He shifts while still inside me, and this change in angle plucks a new nerve. I groan against his palm as he does it again, not looking away from me for even a second.
Doing this was for him at the start.
I’m the centre of his world now.
Nothing else exists. That’s what he shows me with each fast fuck in and slow slide out, with each search for where I’ll make the same sound again for him to muffle, until the world turns white for a second time.
His hand drops, finding my dick, and it’s game over.
I come so hard it’s a good thing he’s got me wedged between him and the counter. And thank fuck I am when I’m too boneless to be any help with his last few shuddering thrusts.
His fingers spasm, then search, and if I ever wanted a sign I’ve been in one place for too long, he gives it to me—his forehead is pressed against my shoulder, no way for him to see, yet he still finds my hand again without looking.
He does it again after we collapse across his bed in a sweaty and heavily breathing tangle of limbs and kisses.
The ache in my arse is worth it to see his expression—he’s at peace when he lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles.
That easy contact? This soft-yet-rough combination of lips and new beard prickle is like getting to see him for a first time, only minus any burrs or blades or tension.
He’s relaxed, and I love that so much for him that my voice dries.
“You feeling better?”
He nods. He also scrubs at his face like he’s embarrassed. He keeps his eyes covered. “I don’t know why I got all…” He shrugs and lets his hands drop to gaze across his pillow at me. “It was all good, you know?” he says softly. “Everything Mitch showed me? Everything he told me? It was just…”
“A lot?”
He nods again. He also changes the subject. “You said you had some good news. What was it?”
“Oh, yeah. The publisher liked the image drafts I sent. Which is good. They told my agent that they’ll definitely move forward with a contract if I can strengthen another aspect.”
Hayden blinks, so I add more detail.
“They want to maximise who the book will appeal to. My mentor will blurb it. That means I can splash his name on the cover and that will attract the kids’ story market. The other market I can corner attracts readers who like to support charitable projects. If I can find a nonprofit organisation that will agree to collaborate, it will help with marketing. Lend credibility to any publicity. That kind of thing. Once I have that agreement, the publisher will sign me and publish the book sometime next year.”
They’d also give me an advance right away, which will keep my project going.
“Collaborate with a charity? Do you have?—?”
“One in mind?” I cross my fingers while saying, “Hopefully, yes. I reached out to a contact. He’s fixed me up with a meeting in London as soon as I finish my last session with the sixth-form students.”
“That’s this afternoon? But you’ve got another week left, right?”
Here’s the thing about deadlines: They can shift like sand dunes. “Not if I want to meet the guy who heads the nonprofit foundation I have in mind. He’ll be away on business tomorrow. The timing will be tight, but he’s agreed to meet me tonight. If I can make the train, I can pitch the idea to him face-to-face. Then I’ll shut myself away and get busy.”
“Back here?”
I shake my head. Explaining why feels like a weakness, but he’s faced tough shit with me watching, so I go ahead and do the same. “Too many distractions. I mean, not everyone like me procrastinates, but I’ve had a pretty bad case of it lately.”
“Everyone like you?”
“With attention issues. Mine mean I do this every single time.”
That soft gaze searches my face. “Do what, Rae?”
“Get in my own way.”
“How?”
“By never starting until it’s almost too late. Drives me up the wall when I’ve got everything squared away up here.” I tap my temple. “I can picture everything I need to put on paper.”
“But you’ve been drawing plenty. I’ve seen you.”
“Yeah, but nothing I should have.” A hundred sketches only featuring Hayden probably won’t cut it. “I literally can’t make myself work if there’s even the slightest distraction.” I tap my temple again like I watched Mitch do earlier. Then I touch Hayden in the same spot with much gentler fingers. “I thought Cornwall would be distraction-free for me.”
“But it wasn’t?”
He’s still flushed, his colour still post-sex heightened, and I’d kill to recreate how he looks at me like I’m the opposite of what I describe to him. “Mate, I’m a disaster who has never had a harder time staying focussed.”
I’ve also done my best work ever. Those initial images the publisher loved prove it.
That contradiction leaves me frowning.
Hayden frowns too, and I can almost see cogs turning—him guessing that he’s the reason—and he even starts to pull away, so I repeat what he did outside the chapel without needing to look to know how to link us. This time, it’s my hand that shoots out to grab his as I try to make light of what has lately been a heavier cross to carry than usual.
“It’s fine. I haven’t missed a deadline yet.” The inside of my head is just a shit place to be stuck in during countdowns. “I always manage to pull it out of the bag at the last moment. Can focus when I have no other choice and absolutely have to.”
This is what I wish I could punt into the sun but can’t keep swerving. “There’s too much riding on this project to risk waiting to the very last moment. I know it, and so does my agent. That’s why they’ve offered studio space to lock myself away to get the next set of images finished.” I describe what I’ll draw next, going to get my phone and bringing it back to bed to show him a photo that is so much more than a reference image for me. It’s what started this whole ball rolling.
“A kid’s life vest?” He takes the phone from me, peering closer. “Is it…”
“Slashed?” I nod, remembering the kid I ran after through waves to make sure she got it. Traffickers are scum. This doesn’t seem much better. “That’s what the authorities do to anything they find. Slash it so it can’t be used by anyone else.” I can only hope that means their boat was stopped before it reached deep water. I change the subject rather than describe what happens to kids miles off-shore when that happens. “Hey, what about your text?”
“My text?”
“Yes. You said you had something to ask me?”
“Ah.” Something flickers in those soft eyes as he gives my phone back. “It wasn’t anything as important as this.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “Just something about my sisters.”
“You decided to go and see them for their birthday?”
He shrugs. “I probably won’t while there’s still work to do here.” His biceps are a bulging distraction from arguing he should make time for the people who miss him, especially after a conversation that left him creased and crumpled. The kiss he brushes my forehead with is another distraction before he rolls out of a bed I wish we could both stay in for longer, and he says, “Just do one thing for me, yeah?”
Anything.
“Don’t miss your shot, Rae.”
The like I did is silent. I guess we both hear it, and this is hoarser.
“Take it and don’t let anything or anybody stop you. Give your last talk to the kids and then go make that pitch. Get that foundation to partner with you, then lock yourself away, turn off your phone, and draw your fucking heart out.”
Neither of us mention what will come after.
I’ll cross the Channel while he’ll be here.
I know that.
We both do.
We’ve done this before—gone our separate ways and got on with our lives until I washed up back here. Today’s bright and shiny publishing news has obscured what now comes into stark focus.
After today, I won’t have a reason to come back. The next time we say goodbye will be for good.
I’m not ready.
Hayden comes back to bed, his arms tight around me, and he’s a man of few words. I know that like I always knew this was a short-term reprieve from real life.
He doesn’t need to speak to tell me what I hear loud and clearly.
For someone who told me he wasn’t a long-term proposition, he isn’t ready either.