Chapter 24
Zac
I’m kissing her again.
Am I stupid?
Yes.
Do I care right now?
No.
I blame the haze I’m in… a Hannah Morgan cloud that’s flicked a switch in my heart that’s been off for so long. Or dead.
But she’s injecting life into me with a single kiss.
My head screams, fuck, what are you doing? Stop. Go home.
But my heart is drowning in lust.
She’s a celebrity who won’t be here much longer. Before I know it, she’ll be back in LA, so I should save myself the inevitable pain. But instead of pulling away, I’m seeking more.
More of what?
Her, yes, but it’s something else. Something that terrifies me because I’m usually headstrong. Stubborn. Hardened.
Yet her softness is seeping into my blood, melting cracks in my facade. Making me want to do everything for her and not let her move a muscle. Which isn’t good. She needs to move, needs to be independent, but I don’t want her to hurt herself and lose her career.
Is it because I don’t want her to leave?
Fuck.
Maybe that’s what it’s really about.
A loud bang interrupts our kiss as pain shoots through my left foot. I jerk back, heaving for breath, staring down at the bottle of laundry detergent now rolling across the floor.
She giggles, her shoulders shaking against me. “Sorry.”
Smirking, my gaze snaps up to hers. “You think that’s funny, do you?”
She nods, giggling some more, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Yes.”
Her lips are red and swollen, plump from my kisses. Her eyes shine with pure happiness.
I pause, my breath catching as I take that in.
A woman has never looked at me with genuine desire before. It’s always been about what I can give them—my connections, my family name, the Sterling fortune.
But her? She’s looking at me like I’m the only man in the world, and it’s fucking with my head so badly, I scoop her up into my arms.
She squeals in surprise, then immediately melts against my chest, resting her head on my shoulder. Her lips brush the sensitive skin at the side of my neck, and a tingling sensation fills my body, sparking nerve endings I didn’t know existed.
“What about the laundry?” she murmurs.
“I’ll do it. You need to stay on the sofa.”
A part of me is already arguing back. You could put her down right here on the bed instead. You could stay. I shut those thoughts down.
Her head lifts, those blue eyes meeting mine, and I want to protest. Want to tell her to lay her head back down because I’m enjoying this new feeling, and I want more of it.
I cross the living room and lower her to the sofa, my hand lingering on her waist. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I lean down and kiss her briefly before I force myself to pull away.
She moans, her fingers clutching at my shirt. “More.”
“Soon. The word is out before I can stop it, and I catch myself too late… I just told her this couldn’t happen again, and here I am promising her more of it.
“I need to sort out the laundry and check on dinner before you make me burn it,” I fire back over my shoulder, walking away, putting distance between us before I lose the thread of whatever sense I have left.
Her head twists back to gaze at me from the sofa cushions, and she’s beaming like my words have made her happier. Which can’t be right, can it? I never say the right thing. Never say enough. My ex made that clear… but I guess with her, it’s different.
“Okay.” She bites her bottom lip, her cheeks flushing that gorgeous shade of pink.
She’s so pretty when she blushes. I need to force myself to move before the pasta bake burns in the oven, and I forget about the laundry entirely.
Heading to the laundry room, I pick up the detergent bottle still lying on the floor where we left it.
My foot isn’t throbbing anymore. I think all the blood decided to migrate to my dick instead.
I ignore my uncomfortably tight jeans and focus on pouring the liquid into the dispenser, loading the clothes, and turning on the machine.
Before I leave, I roll up the throw rug.
Just in case. If she decides to come in here during the few hours when I’m not around, I can’t have her tripping again.
I tuck it into the closet before going into the kitchen.
My body feels lighter than it has in years.
But I know it’s only because we’re in the safety of this house. As soon as I leave, I’ll be reminded of what I’ve done. What line I crossed.
Before I take the pasta bake out, I glance over at the living room. She’s lying on the sofa, her injured foot propped on a pillow. And suddenly, I’m picturing myself curled up with her—her head on my lap, my fingers threading through her hair, both of us content in the comfortable silence.
I’ve never felt this way before. Never wanted that kind of intimacy.
The realization makes my heart twist with a dangerous mix of desire and anguish.
I could see myself falling for this woman.
We eat on the sofa because there’s no way I’m making her hobble to the dining table. She moves as I approach, pushing herself up from her reclined position and tucking her bad leg up onto the cushion in front of her, still propped on a pillow, making room beside her.
I balance both plates carefully, handing her one before settling beside her, close enough that our thighs touch, her elevated foot resting just past my knee.
“This smells amazing,” she says, her eyes widening as she takes in the golden-brown cheese crust. “You actually made this from scratch?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” I stab my fork into the pasta, trying not to feel ridiculously pleased by her reaction. “I’m not completely useless in the kitchen.”
She takes her first bite, and her eyes roll back. A small moan escapes her throat that goes straight to my dick.
“Oh, my God,” she mumbles around the mouthful. “This is incredible. Like, restaurant-quality incredible.”
I shrug, but warmth spreads through my chest. “It’s just pasta.”
“It’s not just pasta.” She takes another bite, chewing slowly, like she’s savoring every flavor.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
The question catches me off guard. I focus on my own plate, uncomfortable. “My mom.” I clear my throat. “She used to make this every Sunday.”
Hannah’s hand finds my knee, squeezing gently. The warmth of it seeps through the fabric of my pants, and I have to resist the urge to cover her hand with mine. To hold on to it. Instead, I just sit there, very aware of how easily she touches me. How natural it seems to her. “She sounds amazing.”
“She is.” I don’t elaborate. Can’t. My family is too much.
“So, what other secrets are you hiding? You can paint? Code? Carpentry?”
“I can gut a fish in twenty seconds.”
She laughs. “Okay, that’s actually kind of hot in a disgusting, rugged way.”
“Kind of hot?” I turn to face her fully.
Her cheeks flush, and she bites that bottom lip again. “Actually... it’s very hot.”
I smirk.
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the TV still playing low in the background. I’m struck by how natural this feels. I’ve never been good at small talk, at filling the quiet with meaningless conversation. But with Hannah, nothing is awkward. It’s… easy.
She yawns halfway through her dinner.
“Tired?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
“A little.” She sets her plate on the table, shifting to curl against my side. “But I don’t want today to end.”
My arm moves on its own, wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her closer. “You need rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she murmurs against my chest, the words doing dangerous things to my self-control.
Another yawn, bigger this time.
“Come on.” I stand, then scoop her up again before she can protest. “Bedtime.”
“I can walk.”
“Not on my watch.”
I carry her down the hallway to her bedroom. Her unmade and messy space that makes my eye twitch, but I ignore it and focus on her. As I set her down on the edge of the bed, she looks up at me with her big blue eyes.
“I need to change,” she whispers.
Fucking hell.
I look at the clothes draped over the chair in the corner of the room. “Right. Where are your pajamas?”
She points to the dresser. “Second drawer.”
I cross the room, ignoring the way my heart is racing. This is fine… I can handle this. I’m a doctor. I’ve seen plenty of women undress before.
But when I turn back with a soft cotton nightgown in my hands, she’s already pulling her sweatshirt over her head.
My mouth goes dry.
Her satin bra does absolutely nothing to hide the large swell of her breasts. My fingers twist on the fabric in my hands as she reaches for the waistband of her sweatpants.
“Need help?” I shouldn’t be offering when I feel so turned on, but I focus on being the doctor she needs.
She nods, her eyes locked on mine. “Please.”
I drop the nightgown on the bed and then kneel in front of her, my hands shaking slightly as I lower the sweats. Her breathing is loud and shallow. I hate the thought that she’s struggling just as much as I am. This isn’t one-sided, that she’s right here with me, falling apart at the same time.
“Lift up,” I rasp roughly.
She braces her hands on my shoulders and raises her hips. I slide the sweats down carefully, feeling the heat radiating off her skin, mindful of her ankle. The pants pool at her feet, and I’m left staring at matching blue satin panties.
Fuck my life.
I should look away. Should focus on grabbing the nightgown, putting it on, and covering her.
But instead, my hands slide up her calves, over her knees, stopping at the tops of her thighs. Her skin is impossibly soft and warm beneath my palms.
“You’re killing me,” I admit.
“Good,” she breathes shakily. “Because you’ve been killing me all day.”
I look up, and the desire in her eyes nearly undoes me completely. I imagine myself moving forward and kissing her hot skin, starting at her stomach, just above her panties. My hands tighten on her thighs. I have to physically remind myself why I can’t.
“We should get you dressed,” I say.
“Should we?” She threads her fingers into my hair, gripping it. “Or should we do something else?”
Double fuck.