Seventeen
Uncharted Waters
MIA
AUSTIN’S ARM IS DRAPED across my waist, his fingers drawing slow, aimless patterns on my skin. The room is bathed in the soft glow of the city lights streaming through the blinds, the silence between us comfortable but weighted.
We have been at it for hours, and my body feels languid and sated.
I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve come.
It started as a rough and ready fuck fest, but then it turned to gentle love making.
I loved every single minute of it. We made love until exhaustion claimed us, and now we lie here, surrounded by silence, our breaths the only sound filling the room.
I glance up at him. His face is half-hidden in shadows, but his eyes . . . his eyes give him away. There’s a heaviness there, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I whisper, running my fingers along the sharp line of his jaw.
His lips twitch, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have enough pennies for what’s going on in my head.”
I laugh softly, but the sound fades as quickly as it came. His voice is light, but the look in his eyes isn’t.
“Austin?” I press gently, shifting closer to him. “Talk to me.”
He takes a deep breath in. “Do you ever feel like no matter how far you’ve come, no matter how hard you work to move on, your past just refuses to let go?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady.
I prop myself up on my elbow, my hand resting on his chest. “Sometimes,” I admit, trying to tread lightly. “But you don’t strike me as someone who lets the past define them. You’ve built this incredible life. You’re . . . untouchable.”
That earns a soft chuckle, but it’s bitter. “Untouchable?” he repeats, his tone laced with irony. “That’s the thing about armour, Mia. It hides the scars. Doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
The room falls silent except for the faint hum of the city below us. I wait, giving him the space to continue, my heart already aching for him even though I don’t know the story yet.
“I grew up in the system,” he says finally, his voice distant, like he’s narrating someone else’s life. “In and out of foster homes. Some were ok. Most weren’t.”
My chest tightens from his bombshell. “Austin . . .”
He shakes his head, cutting me off before I can say more. “My dad was a drunk,” he continues, his tone hardening. “Mean bastard. He’d come home from the pub looking for someone to take his drunken anger out on. My mum always stepped in. She tried to shield me from it, but . . . ”
I don’t miss the way his hand trembles as it rests on my hip. Instinctively, I cover it with mine, squeezing gently.
“One night, he came home completely plastered. They fought. It wasn’t anything new, but this time . . .” His voice falters, and he takes a shaky breath. “This time, he pushed her. She fell down the stairs.”
The air in the room seems to evaporate, leaving me gasping for breath.
“She broke her neck,” he says flatly, as if saying it without emotion will make it hurt less. “And he . . . he just left. Walked out the door and never came back. Left her lying there at the bottom of the stairs. Left me.”
My hand flies to my mouth, tears streaming down my cheeks as I picture the scene—a terrified little boy, alone with the unimaginable.
“It was three days before anyone found us,” Austin says, his voice breaking. “Three days. I was four years old. I didn’t understand she was gone. I just . . . I stayed next to her, waiting for her to wake up.”
A sob escapes me before I can stop it. “Austin . . .”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, his walls snapping back into place. “It’s ancient history.”
“No,” I say firmly, sitting up to face him. “It does matter. You matter.”
His eyes finally meet mine, and the raw vulnerability there almost undoes me.
“After that, I was thrown into the system,” he continues, his tone emotionless again.
“Foster home after foster home. My auntie couldn’t have me due to health reasons so there was no choice.
Some families were kind, but most . . . most just wanted the cheque.
I learnt pretty quickly not to get attached. People leave. They always do.”
I reach for him, cupping his face with both hands. “Not everyone,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch as if he’s been starving for it. “That’s why I keep people at arm’s length, Mia,” he admits. “It’s safer that way. Easier.”
I’m the only one he hasn’t.
Tears blur my vision as I stroke his cheek, my heart breaking for the boy he was, for the man he is now. “You don’t have to do that with me,” I say softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes snap open, filled with a mix of hope and doubt. “You say that now,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I mean it,” I insist, my voice shaking with emotion. “Austin, you’re not your father. You’re not the things that happened to you. You’re so much more than that. And you’re not alone anymore.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his walls crumbling one by one. Then he pulls me into his arms, holding me so tightly it’s as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
We lie there in silence, the weight of his confession hanging in the air. I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and he shudders beneath me.
“You’re stronger than you think,” I whisper.
He lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing against my forehead. “You make me want to be,” he says quietly.
My tears spill freely now, but I don’t try to stop them. “I’m here,” I promise. “For as long as you’ll let me be.”
Austin doesn’t reply, but the way he holds me says enough. In this moment, with his walls down and his heart open, I know I’m falling for him.
And as his arms tighten around me, I know I never want to leave him.
Ever.
THE SMELL OF COFFEE and something buttery drags me from sleep, my limbs heavy with post-lovemaking contentment. I blink, disoriented for a moment, until I recognise Austin’s ridiculously masculine bedroom—the dark walls, the leather armchair in the corner, and that scent that’s all him.
And then it hits me: last night. The passion. The confessions. The raw honesty that left my chest cracked wide open.
A muffled clang comes from the kitchen, and I frown. Austin? Cooking?
I slip out of bed, pulling on one of his crisp white shirts hanging on the back of a chair. It falls to mid-thigh, swallowing me whole. When I pad into the kitchen, I stop in my tracks.
Austin Conall, CEO of his own architectural firm, is standing at the stove flipping pancakes like some sort of domestic god. He is shirtless and I watch as his muscles flex with every moment. His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, exposing those damn V-lines that should be illegal.
“What is happening right now?” I ask, folding my arms and leaning against the doorframe, enjoying the view.
He glances over his shoulder, a spatula in hand, his expression smug. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“You’re cooking?” I arch a brow. “And not just cooking—pancakes? Bacon? Is there a hidden camera somewhere?”
He chuckles, flipping a pancake onto a plate with far too much flair. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve been known to make breakfast on occasion.”
“Let me guess—special occasions only?”
His smirk deepens. “Exactly. Lucky you.”
I step closer, swiping a piece of bacon from the counter and popping it into my mouth. “This is very . . . American of you.”
Austin sets the spatula down and crosses his arms, his biceps flexing as he leans against the counter. “What’s wrong with American breakfast?”
“Nothing,” I say, grinning. “It’s just . . . pancakes, bacon, syrup—it’s all so extra.”
“Extra?” He feigns offense. “Says the woman who eats avocado toast with a sprinkle of something called nutritional yeast.”
“Fair point.”
With a chuckle, he grabs the plate of pancakes and sets it on the table, pulling out a chair for me. “Sit. Eat.”
I do as I’m bid, my stomach rumbling as I dig into the fluffy stack drenched in syrup. Austin takes the seat across from me, his coffee mug in hand, watching me with a look that’s somewhere between amused and something deeper.
“You’re full of surprises, Conall,” I say between bites.
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension of last night lingering but not in a bad way. It’s . . . different now. Softer.
“So,” he says after a moment, swirling the coffee in his mug. “What do you want to do today?”
I shrug, stabbing a piece of pancake with my fork. “I don’t know why?”
“Because I want to take you somewhere.”
My brow furrows. “Where?”
He hesitates, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. “How about a walk along the river?”
I blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.” He leans forward, his gaze steady. “I don’t do this kind of thing, Mia. Taking time off. Letting someone in. But with you . . . it feels different.”
My heart stutters in my chest. The raw honesty in his tone, the vulnerability in his expression—it’s enough to make my walls crack.
“Ok.” I say softly. “Let’s do it.”
Austin gives me his best megawatt smile that makes my heart skip a beat.
After we have eaten breakfast, Austin clears our plates and turns to me. “Right, Jameson, I’m going to fuck you in the shower.”
“Now you’re talking.”
His grin mirrors mine, wicked and full of intent, as leads me by the hand to his bathroom. He switches on the shower and then turns back to me. He looks down at his boxers and I find myself doing the same.
Oh . . .
I slip my hand into the waistband and graze his cock with the back of my hand. It’s thick, hard, and pulsing. When I look up, I find his eyes watching me intently.
I cup my hand around him, and he places his hand over mine.
Steam rises around us, clinging to our skin as I reach around, cupping his firm, sculpted arse.
God, how is this man even real?
“I love this,” I whisper, moulding my palms over him.
He groans again, leaning in to rest his forehead against mine. “Good. Because it’s all yours, baby.”