Chapter 37 #2
“Yeah, I, uh,” Harry chuckles awkwardly, “I see that now. Guess I assumed the worst of you, too.”
Ross shrugs, and Harry lets go of him. “It’s all right. Once Elena told me how she left it, I wasn’t surprised that’s what you were thinking.”
“If you ever want to visit, you’re welcome to. At Highcourt Hall. Or wherever else, honestly. I mean that,” Harry says, and my throat tightens so hard I almost drop my book. “She needs more than just me and her sister around.”
Ross glances at me, grinning, before he looks back at Harry. “Thanks, man.”
————
The Highcourt Hotel in Philly is relatively new. It’s all sleek black glass and gold fixtures, dramatic lighting from the ground up outside. Harry pulls into the underground garage and tips the valet, and then before I even blink, we’re taking the private elevator all the way up to the top.
“How do you know no one’s staying in the penthouse?” I ask quietly, glancing up at him as he stares at the rising floor numbers.
“Called when I left home to make sure,” he says.
“You were going to stay either way?”
He shrugs. “Figured if it went south and I wanted to break something, it would be better to do it to something I own.”
I blink. Fair enough.
The penthouse is understated but beautiful.
Wide glass windows, dark wood, a fireplace that clicks on with the lights.
There’s a hint of that scent that I’ve come to learn is just the Highcourt Hotel signature scent, something a bit heavy with a hint of bergamot.
But when he closes the door behind us, it’s like the air changes — thicker, sharper, weightier.
I turn, and he’s looking at me, his gaze dragging up and down my pathetically dressed form.
I’m barely in real clothes, just leggings and a sweater and a pair of flats, but I’m suddenly aware of the curve of my stomach and the damp chill still clinging to my skin from the brief walk outside.
More than that, though, is the fact that this man drove four hours to find me, across a state line, because he didn’t want to go another night not knowing what was going on or where I was.
“I didn’t think you’d come down to Philly,” I say softly.
He blinks, tilting his head slightly, the light from the fireplace catching in his eyes. “Don’t think I could’ve stayed away if I tried, to be honest.”
And just like that, we’re moving.
It’s fast, clumsy, desperate. He reaches me in two strides, his hands cupping my cheeks, tilting my head up to his as his mouth finds mine.
It’s not tentative or searching — his kiss is full of possession, apology, and relief.
A broken little sound escapes my throat and I press against him as much as my stomach will allow, my arms winding around his neck as he backs me toward the door on the left.
It’s weird how much lighter everything feels without the weight of a million different things weighing on us.
His hand slides over the curve of my spine, his other pushing down the door handle, his mouth never leaving mine. He walks me to the bed, turns, and sits on the mattress, pulling me fully into his lap.
“I’m gonna crush you,” I whine against his lips.
“You’re not.” His grip tightens at my back, pulling me flush to him. “Wouldn’t care if you did, anyway.”
His hands move. They’re everywhere at once, mapping my back, my sides, the swell of my stomach, as if he’s relearning me and confirming I’m real.
I sink fully into his lap at his insistence, my hands fisting in the soft wool of his sweater.
The sensation of his solid warmth beneath me after days of cold dread is like an anchor.
“Genuinely thought I’d lost you,” he confesses against my lips. But then he’s kissing me again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a desperation that mirrors the one growing in me. “The thought of you being anyone else’s… God, it fucking gutted me.”
I shake my head, pulling back just enough to look in his half-lidded eyes. “I’m yours,” I murmur. “Just yours. No one else.”
A shudder runs through him. He blinks, slowly, before his hands slip beneath my sweater, his palms hot against my skin. He pushes the fabric up and over my head, tossing it aside, the cool air hitting my skin. But I’m burning inside.
His fingers find the clasp at the back of my sports bra, fumbling for all of a second before it gives way. The fabric loosens, and he pulls it down my arms with a reverence that makes my skin prickle.
“Are they still sore?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just beneath my breasts.
“A-A bit.”
“Okay,” he murmurs.
Instead of touching them, he leans in, peppering a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, my shoulders, the slope of my neck. It’s a deliberate, tender choice that makes my throat close. He’s taking care of me.
But I’m desperate to feel him.
I claw at the hem of his sweater. “Off,” I rasp. “Please.”
He helps me, pulling it over his head in one swift motion, his shirt following right after. The sight of him, all hard planes and taut muscle, the dusting of silver hair across his chest — it sends a fresh wave of want crashing through me.
His mouth meets mine again, headier, needier, as his hands lower, fingers hooking in the waistline of my leggings. He pulls, getting them halfway down my thighs along with my underwear, before both of us realize that I’m going to have to move if I want them off.
I shuffle back a little, kneeling, leaning onto one leg.
It’s a struggle. My balance is shit. My stomach is huge. I grip onto his shoulder for stability before abandoning the idea altogether under his amused gaze, pushing back off him and just standing.
A chuckle oozes out of him, warm and rich. “Having trouble, darling?”
I glare at him. “Shut up,” I grumble, kicking them off my feet. “You try being a human incubator and then we’ll talk about your flexibility.”
He snorts, then welcomes me back into his lap with open arms, his hands splaying across my bare skin. “No, thank you,” he grins, looking up at me. “But I’m forever thankful that you’re putting up with it for both of us.”
I roll my eyes.
He rolls us in answer.
The world spins, and then my back is against the sheets, the ceiling above me, and I have to blink to register that everything’s flipped. He hovers over me, between my thighs, caging me in.
His mouth meets my skin as he kisses a searing path down my neck.
He shifts, kicking his pants and boxers down his legs with urgency now, his hands sliding down my thighs to lift them just enough to touch my belly.
The hard, hot length of him rests against my lips, and my breath stutters, a broken little noise leaping from my throat.
“Missed you,” he murmurs.
I don’t have time to say it back.
He buries himself in me in one clean thrust, filling me so completely it feels like my body is about to split in two. “Fuck—”
My back arches, my breathing shaky, and he hasn’t even moved yet.
“Attagirl,” he grins, his voice strained as he begins to move. His mouth collides with mine again, his hips impatient, his pace nearly relentless from the start. It’s everything, and it’s too much, leaving me barely able to keep up with my mouth with my head spinning this badly.
His hand cups my cheek as he pulls back just enough to stare down at me, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged.
“Mine,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with a reverence that rivals what his hips are doing to me. “Every inch of you. Mine. And mine alone.”
I nod frantically and grab for his shoulders, pulling him back down, my hands slipping into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. But the longer it goes, the more the angle starts to become awkward, my stomach growing uncomfortable and my mind turning to worry.
“Wait—” I gasp, my hands moving down to his ribs, pausing him. “The… the bump—”
His body stills entirely, concern flashing immediately in his eyes. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I assure him. “No, no, it’s just—it’s in the way, it’s uncomfortable.”
Understanding dawns, and he nods, his expression softening with relief. “Thank fuck. Okay,” he murmurs. “Lie on your side.”
He slips out, the loss of him making me shudder and whine in irritation, but he helps me roll. His body settles behind mine, his chest a solid wall of heat against my back. One arm slips beneath me, the other shifting my leg just slightly before guiding himself back inside from behind.
“Oh, god,” I groan, my face turning into the sheets as he sinks in fully, deeper somehow in this position. The angle is perfect, no pressure at all on my stomach, and I can’t fucking think.
He settles into a slower, more deliberate rhythm now, each moving a deep, rolling thrust that steals my breath. His lips find the sensitive spot just beneath my ear, nipping at it. “This better?”
“So much,” I breathe, melting beneath his touch.
“Good,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin as his hips hit mine a little more forcefully. “I can keep you here forever, then.”
I laugh breathlessly, the motion turning into an aimless nod, my words lost to the relentless, perfect thrusts. His hand rounds my hips, slipping between my thighs, and my vision blurs and his fingers dip through the slick warmth and circle my clit. “Harry—”
The arm beneath my neck moves, his free hand gliding up my neck and grabbing my chin gently.
He tips my head back and turns it just enough that I can meet his gaze from the corner of my eye.
He presses a kiss to the side of my lips, hovering, his breathing ragged, before his forehead falls against my temple.
I feel his lips moving against my jaw before I can fully process the words.
“I love you.”
My breath hitches, my body going rigid for a fraction of a second. He said it. He didn’t say it back earlier, but he’s said it now, he said it—
He repeats it, louder this time, his voice ragged with emotion and the strain of holding himself back. “I love you, Elena.”
The words unlock something in me. A sob mixes with a moan as the first wave of my release hits me like a storm, chaotic and unpredictable. My body convulses in his hold, and I cry out, my hand reaching back to grip his thigh, anchoring myself with my nails as I fall apart.
Apparently, feeling me shatter is all it takes for him.
His mouth opens just a little wider, a guttural groan falling from it that sounds somewhat like my name but could be anything. He drives into me one last, achingly deep time and spills himself inside me, his grip tightening, holding me in place as he pulses.
For a long moment, the only sounds are our ragged breaths and the faint crackling of the fire in the next room.
He doesn’t pull away. He stays buried inside of me, his forehead still resting against me, his hand moving from between my thighs to wrap around my stomach instead.
Whether intentional or not, he’s holding me together.
“I love you,” he whispers a third time, the words soft and sure in the quiet room. It’s not a question, it’s not an obligatory response to my own words. It’s a confession and an apology and longing all at once, and I don’t even question it.
I pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I love you, too.”