32. “Crazy in Love” - Sofia Karlberg
“Crazy in Love” - Sofia Karlberg
Walker
I hate the internet. No matter how credible a source seems, there’s never any definitive way to verify the information, not unless you also have the book they are referencing.
And I don’t plan to be in Wesbourne long enough to have several dozen books shipped to me just so I can double-check the info.
I should be on a plane to Oxford, but the last thing I want to think about is packing up and heading back. This manor is cozy, especially with the rain the past two days, and I’m not that eager to return to Mrs. Greenwich and her five cats.
I hunch over my laptop and try to gain as much information online as I can. I’ve enacted security measures to keep anyone from tracking me. The threat of internet and government stalking is real, but I’m not going to become one of their victims.
I have a lot of studying to make up for, and I can’t afford to be distracted by poker nights and beaches and revenge plots and Heath bloody Lawrence.
My phone is safely ensconced in my bedroom so that I won’t be tempted to pull up his sparse Instagram profile and scroll through a handful of pictures of him with his surfboard, abs on display and ready for my next fantasy.
The search for information on G.R. Huntington’s childhood has been a dead end.
Everything online is a regurgitation of the same facts.
What I need is that obscure biography from the Archives that I didn’t have a chance to finish before we got thrown out.
I search eBay for another copy, but the only one available is in Australia.
I go ahead and order it, but it will take two to three weeks to arrive at my Oxford flat.
I push back from the table in frustration. This is useless. I can circle the same sites over and over, but they’re never going to tell me anything I don’t already know.
Why the bloody hell did Heath have to punch Riordan and get us banned?
I had one mission in coming here: complete my research. Instead I got roped into one revenge plot after another, taking last-minute trips to the beach and fucking Paris , and spending valuable time playing poker when I should have been studying.
This is what happens when you take your eyes off the prize.
I head upstairs to pack my bags. There is no reason to stay in Wesbourne a minute longer. I will book a ticket on the first flight out of here.
I’m nearly to the top of the stairs when a faint buzz echoes through the house. I push the breath from my lungs and walk back down to the first floor. Whoever it is can be sent away.
I open the door to find a sopping wet Heath on the other side. His long hair is sending rivulets of water down his face. His shirt is barely buttoned—as usual—and the rain has plastered it to his chest. I move to close the door again, but he stops it with his hand.
“Walker, please. I have something for you.”
I raise a brow at his empty hands.
“It’s in the car. I didn’t want to get it wet,” he says .
I cross my arms over my chest, wishing I’d worn something besides the tiny shorts peeking out from beneath my sweatshirt.
“If I go get it, will you please not close the door on me?”
I study him for a few more seconds. His face is earnest, like a puppy’s, his eyes wide and hopeful. Irritation at my weakness for him rises.
“Please leave,” I say.
“Walker, I promise you, you will want what I brought.” He holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back.” He darts back into the rain like he fully expects me to stand here waiting for him.
I’m about to step back inside, but he’s piqued my curiosity. Without making the decision to, I’m still holding the door when he returns with a big box in his hands.
“Can I—” He nods at the doorway.
I scoot backward so he can come inside, already kicking myself for letting things progress this far. How can I throw him out now, and in the rain, no less?
He sets the box down on the foyer floor. Kneeling beside it, he opens the flaps, then leans back so I can see the contents. I come a little closer and stare at the books.
“I hope I got the right ones.” He rocks back on his heels. “If not, I can go back.”
I drop to my knees next to the box and lift out the top volume. It’s the biography I just ordered from eBay. I set it down beside me and reach into the box again.
I recognize the next one too. I made copious notes from it before we got thrown out on Tuesday. The rest of the box holds more books on Huntington.
“Did you . . . rob the Archives?”
Several beats pass as Heath studies me, like he’s trying to decide how to answer. “Tell me you’re not going to get mad about that too.”
“That depends,” I say as I pull out another biography, “on whether you got caught or not.”
“I went through the window last night. No one saw me.”
I grab the towering stack of books before it can topple over. “What are you waiting for? Help me bring these in.”
We move his loot to the large trestle table in the library. There are over twenty books here. I wipe dust from one of the covers with my hand. “I can’t believe you smuggled all of these out.”
“Yeah, that part was a little harder than I anticipated.”
I keep my eyes on the volume beneath my palm while I gather the courage to say what I need to. “Thank you.” It comes out hushed.
Heath is staring at me as if he wants to say something but can’t form the words.
“I didn’t know what I was going to do.” I need to fill the silence between us.
He steps closer to the table, only a handbreadth away from me now. My body pulses with the desire to touch him, forbidden fruit that he is.
“If I say I’m sorry, will you believe me?” he asks.
“For what?”
His breath leaves him in a rush. “Everything.”
I’m not sure how to tell him what he wants to hear. “I know you didn’t mean to get us kicked out.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He reaches out to touch a strand of hair that has strayed from the messy bun on top of my head.
A tightness hitches in my chest, making each breath twice as difficult as usual. The sound of the rain on the window fills the room, creating the effect of being underwater, the rest of the world blocked from sight and sound.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I whisper.
His fingers skim over my jawbone, a freight train across my nerves. “I want you to believe I would never do that again. ”
I swallow, but the lump in my throat is here to stay. “Punch someone?” My voice hikes upward.
“Cheat on you.” He punctuates his words by inching his fingers past my hairline and into the roots of my hair. Goosebumps break out across my skin.
I open my mouth, intending to answer him, but he reaches out a tentative thumb to touch my bottom lip, and all thoughts flee my mind. He gently draws it downward, and I tremble as the saltiness of his skin hits my tongue.
“Walker.” His voice is raspy, and it grates along my sensitive nerves like nails along my spine. My eyes flutter shut. There’s too much of him. I should resist, but I’m tired of fighting so hard against what I want.
He turns us so I’m pressed up against the table, and then his mouth is on mine. His thumb is still on my chin. He uses it to pry my mouth open further for deeper access. I moan as he rediscovers every inch, hungry like it’s been a century since he’s had a taste of me.
He arches me over the table until I’m afraid my spine will snap from the pressure.
Then, with a suddenness that steals my breath away, he pulls back and drags me by the hand to the sofa.
I let him lead me, hardly able to keep my feet pointed in the right direction, let alone direct my thoughts into any semblance of order.
He pushes me onto the cushions, and I land on my back with a quiet thump. The leather is soft beneath my hands. I scramble backward as he crawls over me. I can’t stop the slow grin that spreads across my face.
“What?” He stops directly above me.
“Nothing.” My smile grows.
He narrows his eyes and growls, then tugs me further down by my waistband. “Fucking shorts,” he mutters. “Nothing but a tease.”
My breath catches as he shoves a hand up the front of them from the bottom, his calloused palm rough against the skin of my thigh. His fingers wrap around my hip and sink into the soft flesh there. “I nearly ripped that wanker’s head off when I saw him put his hands on you,” he says.
I shiver at the molten look in his eyes.
He notices, and an evil grin crosses his face. “What would you have done if I hadn’t come over today? Dusted off your vibrator?” He runs the tips of his fingers inside the top of my panty line.
I buck against him, eager for more.
“Patience,” he murmurs, and leans down to press his lips against the skin he exposed by rolling my shorts down an inch.
A moan escapes me as his warm breath heats me to boiling.
With his other hand, he slides a finger inside the crotch of my shorts and panties, running it back and forth until I’m sensitive enough to burst.
In a move characteristic of his short attention span, he pulls away from my waist and pushes up my sweatshirt. Too late, I remember I’m not wearing a bra. A stifled groan slips past his lips when he sees my bare chest. “Fuck.”
He leans down and takes my breast into his mouth. I suck in a breath when his teeth close around it. A bright flash of pain later, he draws back and stares at his handiwork. “That will leave a mark. When it does, I want you to remember that no one touches you but me. Got it?”
Chills race each other down my spine as I meet his gaze. I nod.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper. Then I reach up and tug his head down to mine. He falls onto me with a grunt, and the air rushes from my lungs.
He reaches between us and unbuttons my shorts.
A few seconds later, he yanks them off and tosses them across the room.
My panties follow. When his fingers find their way inside me, I try to arch my hips, but the weight of him pins me to the sofa.
He chuckles against my mouth when he realizes I can’t move.
“What do you want, baby? You have to tell me.” His voice is sandpaper against my heightened nerves.
“I want you.” I try desperately to find friction against him.
“I can’t give you what you want unless you tell me,” he murmurs against my neck.
“Please,” I beg.
“Tell me.”
“I want you as deep as you can go.”
He mutters “fuck” and fishes a condom from his pocket. “What else?”
Words flee my mind as he rolls it on. When he’s ready and poised over me, I brace myself, but he’s not going to give me anything else until I tell him exactly what I want.
“Hard,” I say around a whimper.
A low growl emanates from his chest. “What else, baby? Fast? Or slow?”
I take a few seconds to consider. “Slow.”
He groans as his eyes roll back in his head. “Fuck.” He drags the word out like I’ve asked him to deliver the moon. Then his eyes snap back to mine with an intensity that makes me swallow.
With a slowness that makes me ache to scream, he eases into me, taking me inch by inch, like it’s a competition to see how long he can drag it out.
“Okay, maybe not that slow,” I say through clenched teeth.
A gasping laugh bursts out of him. He picks up the speed by a fraction. “My god,” he says once he’s fully inside. “This will never get old.”
He pulls back out with excruciating languidness. It takes an eternity for him to thrust back in, but when he does, sparks ignite behind my eyelids. A cry slips out of my mouth. He repeats the movement, and this time I’m sure I’m going to expire before ever reaching climax.
After half a dozen more thrusts like that, I say, “Please, Heath. I need more.”
He makes a low noise against my neck, then wraps my legs around his hips. He drives into me with a ferocity that sends me bumping into the arm of the sofa. He yanks me further down and does it again. We find a natural rhythm, our bodies slapping together like a symphony.
As the pressure inside me builds and my climax hovers on the horizon, I have a sudden moment of clarity, where I see the truth for what it is.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent the past two years hiding from him or the pain he’s caused me.
Nothing has changed.
I’m as in love with Heath as I ever was.