Chapter 37 Ella
Ella
We lie in silence, panting, our slick bodies pressed together. It’s only been minutes, but neither of us has spoken, likely not knowing what the hell to say. Beyond the windows, it’s started to snow. It’s a pretty distraction from how sore and satisfied I am.
I had sex.
Wild, incredible sex.
With my dead boyfriend’s brother.
Before I can even voice my guilt, Gable helps me dress. In silence, he pulls on my clothes, then his.
“I’d better take Motor out before we go to bed.” He falters. “We … as in, me and the dog. Not me and you. I— fuck.”
He gets out, slamming the door closed behind him.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and groan.
This is a nightmare. As if the threat of being hunted isn’t messy enough, I’ve thrown a few more complications into the mix.
Good job, Ella.
“Good fucking job, indeed,” I grumble, getting out of the car.
As I close and lock the door to the cabin behind me, Gable has opened the back patio door.
Motor runs out, but Gable waits in the doorway, arms folded, leaning against the frame.
I stare at his back, at his broad shoulders and powerful presence, and wonder how things can change so drastically in such a short amount of time.
Usually, I’d say something sassy or sarcastic if he ignored me. Or I wouldn’t say a word before putting my headphones on and working, content with seeing him in the morning.
Now, I’m pulling apart everything. Is he not facing me because he can’t? Is he not leaving the house because he wants me to come with him on the walk with Motor?
Does he hate himself?
Does he hate me?
“I’m gonna go to bed,” I say, my chest tightening as he faces me.
He stares, and the look keeps me fixed to the spot.
“That can’t happen again.”
I knew that was coming. Truthfully, I’m surprised I didn’t say it first, but it still stings.
“Whatever, Gable,” I whisper, heading for the stairs.
I hear his approaching footsteps. “You can’t be pissed at me.”
Stopping mid-stair, I turn and look down at him. “Really? And why is that?”
“Because … because this isn’t right. It’s fucking disrespectful,” he says, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles are white. “He was my brother.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then you can’t be angry. This is the right thing.”
“Who are you trying to convince?” I snap back. “Does it make you feel less shitty to be the one to call it off? Will it help you sleep tonight?”
The wounded look that crosses his face is there and gone in an instant, but my regret over those words will stay with me forever.
“That’s so fucking unfair, Gibson.”
My laugh is bitter. “Oh, I’m Gibson again? I was Ella when you were fucking me.”
Gable shakes his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
As he walks away, my words land, my cruelty slices through me, but the fire in my bones hasn’t subsided.
I’m angry.
At him, at myself, at the world for bringing us together in such a fucked-up way.
And I’m not done hurting us.
“No, let’s talk,” I say, following him. Cold air and snow sweep in from the open patio door, but we ignore it.
“Do you usually break up with girls while your cum is still running down their thighs?” He tenses but keeps walking, going to the fridge to snatch out a beer.
“What? No response? No sarcastic remark?”
He turns and holds the tip of the bottle against the edge of the kitchen island, slamming his palm down so the cap pops off. He approaches me, and I freeze in place. He takes a long swig of the beer and swallows. “Argue with yourself, Gibson. I’m not fucking interested.”
“Not interested,” I repeat, and as he walks away, he gives me an affirmative thumbs up.
“So you don’t think about me?” He stops in place, keeping his back to me.
My heart rate quickens, and I close my hands into fists.
“You don’t think about that kiss? Or sleeping beside me? You don’t think about touching me?”
Seconds pass, his breathing slow. “I don’t.”
“Liar.” The word is like a bullet, and he tenses. “You’re a lot of things, Gable, but I never thought you were a fucking coward.”
He faces me, and there’s such frustration in his expression that I hold my breath.
“A coward?” His voice is low, threatening.
He throws the bottle against the wall, the glass smashing, and I jump.
Beer slides down the paint, and my attention snaps back to him as he advances on me.
“You think I’m a coward? Fine.” My back bumps into the kitchen island, and we’re inches apart when he gently grips my jaw. “You want the truth, Gibson?”
I swallow, lifting my chin. “Yes.”
“Everything we did in that car? That was the tip of the fucking iceberg. Yes, I think about you. I dream about you. I fucking fantasize” —he takes hold of my throat, and I pull in a shaky breath— “about fucking you until you’ll only ever want me.
I think about your moans, what you taste like, how you’d feel sitting on my face and riding my mouth until you’re coming and pouring down my throat.
” My clit tingles, a pleasant warmth throbbing through my pussy.
He squeezes my throat, and a breathy moan escapes me.
“I think about that kiss. About kissing you again.” I search his eyes, my legs weakening, my anger overtaken by desperate, selfish need.
“I think about taking care of you. Pleasing you. I think about giving you everything, but do you want to know the reality?” His eyes seem to darken further.
“I can’t offer you anything but a life where we’re running. ”
He's right. Painfully right. This can’t be anything—just like Asher and I couldn’t be anything. We come from different worlds, live different lives, probably want different things.
But if the last six months have taught me anything, it’s that the future is fragile. What I wanted before Asher is nothing like what I want now. I’m constantly changing, adjusting, surviving.
I search his face. “It doesn’t matter who I am, Gable. It doesn’t matter who I am to you, or who I was to Asher, or what you can or can’t offer me. We can only ever know what we want right now. And what I want is you.”
His anger has given way to torture, and he slips his hand to the back of my neck, gripping gently. As always, we’re going through the same pain. The same confusion. The same bitter turmoil that never seems to end.
And as always, that pain weaves its way between us, pulling us closer—tying us together.
His sigh is mingled with a tortured groan. “We shouldn’t do this.”
No, we shouldn’t. This can never work. We’re a disaster waiting to happen, but I can’t look away, can’t rationalize my need for him or think about the consequences when he’s this close.
“Don’t pull away from me,” I plead, running my hands up his chest. I’m aching for him again already, and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Don’t leave me alone in this.”
He pulls me closer, clinging to me almost as we lock eyes. He searches my face, and he’s so stripped back, so raw, that I hate myself for doing this to him. I hate myself for falling for him, for begging him to stay with me even if it’s what we both want.
“You’ve fucking ruined me, Ella,” he whispers, and my heart breaks before his lips crash to mine.
It’s raw, unbridled, desperate. We kiss like it’s our first and last, and he unbuttons my jeans, tugging them down roughly. I help him until they’re kicked off, and he turns me, kicking my feet apart before burying himself inside me again.
The feeling of fullness is too perfect. I feel complete, whole, at peace when I’m one with him. We’re connected with more than just our bodies—it’s primal, raw, so beautiful that tears thicken my throat.
“Oh—” I whisper it, unable to speak once he grips my throat and pulls my back to his chest as he fucks me.
He buries his face in my shoulder, biting my skin as he fucks me relentlessly. His other arm circles my waist, holding me in place as he slams into me, never stopping, rutting into me with quick, brutal accuracy.
“You’re perfect,” he says in my ear. “So fucking perfect, Ella.”
I barely register us moving until he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the couch.
He places me down and kneels between my thighs, taking both my wrists in one of his hands, pinning them over my head.
With his other hand, he pushes up my T-shirt and pulls down my bra, releasing my breasts.
As he slides his hard, wet dick inside me again, he bites and kisses my nipples.
His thrusts somehow increase, and my lips part as he fucks me so hard the couch legs groan across the wooden flooring.
“Call me Ella again.”
He pauses, his thrusts slowing, his face close to mine as we lock eyes. His breath is quick, and he presses his forehead to mine. “Ella.”
Goose bumps shiver across my skin, and I close my eyes and arch up to kiss him again. He takes my mouth with heated passion, and when his hips start moving again, I allow myself to enjoy the moment.
To forget what regrets tomorrow might bring.
The fire is lit. Motor is asleep in front of it. We’re lying on the couch, Gable on his back, me on my side next to him. I’m delicately tracing my fingers across his broad chest, down his solid abs, and stop at a small, white mark.
“What’s this one from?”
“Knife,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on my face. “A small one.”
I run my fingertip across it. “When?”
“The night before I saw you again. Someone left an orchid on your porch to fuck with you.” He takes hold of my hand and kisses my palm. “I killed him.”
My heart races from the contact and the words.
After we slept together a second time, Gable wasn’t finished with me. He made me come on his fingers and tongue, and I fell asleep, exhausted, waking up hours later to him watching me sleep. We found something to fill our stomachs, mainly Oreos and beer, and we’ve been talking ever since.
“What about this one?” I gently touch a larger scar on his ribs.
He swallows. “That’s a story for another time.”
I shift down and rest my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, my hand on his stomach.
He plays with my fingers quietly, and it’s strange that he’s so tactile.
I never thought he’d be the kind of lover to want to touch, caress, even cuddle, but we’ve been in almost constant contact since we arrived home.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” I whisper. “I put all of this on you.”
He gently runs his thumb across my palm. “It is on me.”
“No, it isn’t. We can’t blame ourselves. Things just … happen.” I’m unsure if I’m trying to convince myself or him, but I cling to the words anyway. I need them, or the guilt might eat me alive. “I should shower. I have like, eight buckets of cum in me.”
He laughs. “Such a wordsmith.”
I grin, pulling a blanket around me before getting up. I step over our scattered clothes and head upstairs.
As soon as I’m in the shower and the hot water hits me, I’m beyond exhausted. But that exhaustion is short-lived when the shower door opens and Gable steps in behind me. A slow smile creeps across my face as he laces his arms around me and pulls my back to his chest.
“Miss me already?” I ask as he kisses my neck.
“Annoyingly, yes,” he says, and I laugh.
I expect him to fuck me again, but he doesn’t.
He takes his time washing me, soaping me up, getting to his knees and kissing my stomach, my thighs, my hands.
The man fucking worships me when all he’s ever done is hate me, and the change is jarring but so needed that I find myself fighting tears.
He washes my hair, conditions it, then I watch him clean himself.
Soap cascades down his muscular chest, slipping across solid abs and down to his cock.
His muscles flex in his back as he washes his hair, and I watch him, ogle him, as I marvel that this god-like man has just been on his knees for me.
A man who rarely smiles, who only loved his brother, who has killed countless people.
We dry off, I put on my favorite pajamas, and we get into bed. Gable immediately pulls me close, and as he switches out the light, Motor hops onto the bed, curling up at our feet.
It all feels remarkably normal. Not like I’m the hunted, and he’s the killer who has sworn to keep me safe. Not that countless people want me dead, and he’ll die to protect me. Not that I fell for his brother, and now I’m in his arms.
We’re just two people who found each other when we were lost.