by Lindsey Hart
His fingers curled into the flesh of her hips. When he withdrew and slowly, inch by inch, filled her up again, her breathing changed. He felt her body clench around him. Her hips swiveled, grinding into him once again.
Brushing her hair aside, he kissed the back of her neck. She turned her face and he suckled at her tender skin, her earlobe, the delicate column of her throat. Her body came alive under his touch, her hips grinding into his pelvis over and over as he filled her. He drove forward, tortured half breaths escaping his throat.
She was so damn tight, so warm and so wet. He could get lost in her, her scent, her moans, her movements, her slow grinds, the incredible burn spreading through him. Her hair spilled half down her back, half over her shoulders. It swayed with every single movement. His thrusts were getting harder, thicker, quicker. Black spots started their familiar dance across his vision again as her body gripped him tightly.
He felt her muscles clench. He knew the exact second her climax took hold. It was another few seconds before she cried out her pleasure. Her body was so wondrously tight, her muscles working to pull his own pleasure from him long before he was ready. Her body strained under his hands as she writhed and whimpered. She was so tight… so damn tight…
He just couldn’t wait any longer. He thrust harder, harder, out of control, his hips driving into hers, straining, plunging in and gliding out. When he knew he couldn’t hold on any longer, he pulled out, spraying hot jets over her back and bottom. He shuddered violently, groaning loudly, nearly falling over. She was the only thing that kept him upright, her strength and the way she braced herself on the bed.
“I’ll get you something,” he promised. He disappeared into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. It wasn’t the sexiest thing in the world, but she practically purred as he wiped it off. “I’m sorry…” he mumbled as he set the towel aside.
She turned, eyes blazing. “Why are you sorry?”
“Well… that wasn’t the most romantic ending…”
“No,” she whispered. “I think it was perfect. Don’t apologize unless it wasn’t good for you.”
He nearly died. He actually stepped back a pace. “Good? That’s not even the right word. It doesn’t begin to describe what I felt… what it was like being with you…”
Her eyes sparkled as she turned into him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. Just before her lips met his, her smile grew. She pressed herself into him, her curves melding against the hardness of him. And god… he was still hard. Everywhere.
“Good,” she whispered, pleasure and longing thick in every single word. “I want you again. I want more. I want you to show me everything.”
The way she was looking at him, the passion in her kiss, the fire that was just starting, despite everything they’d just done… who was he to deny her anything? He relaxed into her kiss and lost himself in her once more.
CHAPTER 12
Owen
The sound of birdsong and the heat of early morning sunshine woke him the next morning. He slowly cracked one lid, then the other. When he realized that he’d spent the entire night without a dream, or rather a nightmare, he sat straight up in bed. The covers fell away and it all came back. Everything he’d done the night before. The reason that he was waking up naked and not in boxers or his plaid pajama bottoms.
Heat suffused his body. His heart began to pound, wildly. God, he wished Maren was there with him. When did she leave? Right after I fell asleep? Or had she waited? Had she woken early, since she was used to getting up early and she just couldn’t lay around? What had she felt when she left?
I’m pathetic. Seriously.
Owen threw back the covers and let his feet hit the cool floor. Sunlight bathed the bed in its warm, golden glow and he had to squint, it was so bright.
He dressed quietly, throwing on a pair of fresh jeans and a t-shirt out of his suitcase. The shirt was slightly rumpled, but he knew it would smooth out as his body heat hit it and the morning went on.
He was halfway down the hall when soft voices drifted up the stairs to the landing. He paused, not meaning to eavesdrop but the sound of his name brought him up short.
It was Maren who had said his name and he thought he recognized the other voice. Hettie, he figured. They were speaking in the kitchen or maybe even in the living room in hushed tones. They clearly weren’t aware he was awake or standing just at the top of the stairs, not more than fifty feet from where they likely were.
“Have you asked him yet?” That was Hettie, her voice not nearly as quiet as Maren’s.
“Shhh, Hettie,” Maren hissed. So, he was right. It was Hettie down there with her. “I’m not going to ask him. It isn’t right.”
“So, the plan isn’t going as planned?” Hettie laughed softly, a little like a cackle to his ears.
“It was never an actual plan,” Maren corrected gently. “I just can’t do it.”
“But he’s clearly interested in you.”
“No.” Maren’s denial fell flat, even to his ears.
“Don’t no me, Missy. I know a smitten man when I see one. He would do anything for you if you just ask.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to ask. It wouldn’t be right. I don’t want to feel like I’d be taking advantage of him.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re a nice person. Too kind. You let people walk all over you. Do I need to remind you that this house has been in your family for generations?”
“No, of course not.”
“And I can see by that letter you were moping over when I walked in that you don’t have a lot of time. If you don’t want to lose this house, you need to ask Owen. Or find someone else, but we both know the chances of that happening are slim, or at least happening in time. Owen is right here, right now. It’s the perfect opportunity. You just have to take it.”
“I can’t do it, Hettie. I… that’s not what this is about.”
“No? What’s this and what isn’t it about?”
“I… he’s not just here to help me save the bed and breakfast. I don’t want to use him. I don’t want it to be about his money.”
“Of course, that’s not all it would be about, Maren. But we talked about this before he even got here. I thought you were in agreement that you needed to ask.”
“I don’t know if agreement was the right word.”
“We talked about it though, and you didn’t say no.”
“Maybe I was being polite.”
“Or maybe you know deep down that you do what you have to do in order to survive. If you asked him, he wouldn’t say no. I can tell he would do anything for you.”
“It would feel like I’m tricking him.”
“He’s a smart man and he can take care of himself. You wouldn’t be tricking anyone. This place is a good investment, you just need someone to take that risk. He’s already half in love with you.”
“He’s not…”
“He is. Don’t beat around it, Maren. Whatever you’ve been doing worked. You don’t need a husband, you need an investment partner.”
They went on talking in hushed tones, but Owen heard nothing after that. He gripped the ornate wooden railing hard, so hard that little white crescents formed on his knuckles. His chest threatened to cave in. Black spots swarmed his vision. He was so dizzy he nearly fell. Only his hold on the banister kept him upright.
He turned slowly, a minute later when he could finally coordinate a movement. He walked slowly, silently, back to his room. When he shut the door, it closed with just the smallest of clicks. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
I’m a damn fool. He’d promised himself this would never happen again. That a woman would never play him, take advantage of him, use him for his money and leave him broken-hearted.
And here he was. He’d trusted Maren blindly. Chelsea’s best friend. He thought that she was different. That she was a good, kind person. He thought she was worthy of the trust and hope he’d placed in her
. He was, just like he had been before, played by a beautiful face. He’d been put under her spell, entranced by the beauty of feminine allure.
Anger rose, swift and strong, filling his chest, cutting off his air supply. He wanted to put his fist through something, the wall maybe, but he knew that definitely wasn’t productive. He would probably just end up with a sore hand, broken knuckles maybe, and he didn’t need that humiliation on top of everything else.
No, he’d do something much, much worse. He’d leave. Maren would lose this place. Whatever money trouble she was in, he sure as hell wasn’t going to bail her out. If she’d asked him the night before… his face heated painfully when he realized that he would have given her the world, had she asked. He would have taken her hand and trusted her, put his faith in her, given her his already wounded heart in hopes that she could heal it. What a joke. God, he was truly pathetic. Why did I ever come back to this forsaken place?
He had no answers. He was looking for an escape, for closure. I guess I found it. He’d learned a hard lesson. Trust no one. He’d been so determined to live a life as a single man, to never marry, before he met Chelsea. It had been the right decision. There was no one on the damn planet who wouldn’t use a man for money if they had the opportunity. That’s all it was about. The money. It was a curse far more than it was a blessing.
Owen slammed his way over to his suitcase. He started stuffing his things back in, jamming them down when they didn’t fit. What did he really care about any of it? Nothing. He could have walked out the door and left the suitcase behind and it wouldn’t have mattered.
From somewhere below him, a door opened and closed. The front door? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He zipped the zipper closed on his suitcase so violently he nearly ripped it off. The room was a blur as he lifted his heavy luggage. He didn’t wheel it.
He stomped down the hallway, his shoes echoing loudly. He banged down the stairs and almost made it out the front door when the sound of his name, spoken so very softly, brought him up short. He whirled and found Maren standing behind him, her lips parted, soft grey eyes wide. She was so very beautiful, spotlighted by the sunlight flooding in from a window behind her. Her hair glowed like a fiery halo around her face. She was so incredible it hurt to even look at her. The fact that he could still appreciate her beauty when he knew she was nothing but a seductress, that she’d been using him the entire time, was like a thorn in the tender flesh of his heart.
“Owen? Where are you going? You’re not scheduled to leave for days yet.”
Owen barely managed to keep his seething anger in check. He was amazed that when he spoke his voice was entirely controlled. “I heard everything. I’m not going to stay around, and be used a second time. I might have been stupid enough to fall for it once, but it’s not going to happen again.”
Maren’s face fell. She looked absolutely devastated and the fact that it mattered to him made him even angrier. “That’s not how it went, Owen. We both know that.”
“No… no, you don’t get to speak for me,” he growled. His hand gripped the handle of his suitcase so hard the leather bit into his palm.
“Hettie might have her opinion, but it was never my intention to use you like you think. I know what it must sound like, but I swear, I was never going to ask you to invest or to be a partner. At least, not like you think. I would have told you, eventually, but I was going to leave the decision up to you. At least I thought so at first. Now that we- uh- it would have been complicated. Please believe me, Owen, I would rather lose this place than hurt you.”
He wanted to laugh, not the cheerful kind either, the derisive, bitter sound would have been far more correct. “You can say whatever you want, Maren. It doesn’t matter one bit. You don’t matter one bit. So, we slept together? So, what? It doesn’t mean anything.”
His words cut deep and hurt flickered over her face. Her eyes flooded with tears and he hated himself. “I- Owen- I’ve- I’ve felt something for you from the first day I met you. All those years ago. I’ve always cared.”
This time he did laugh, and the sound was absolutely horrible, even to his own ears. It shattered Maren and when she blinked, the tears streamed down her cheeks in silvery lines. “You’re just the same as Chelsea was. You were her best friend. Why should I have expected any different. I should never have come back here. Your feelings have no bearing on reality.”
“Owen- I- I love you.”
That set him back on his heels. He let his suitcase fall from his hand. It hit the floor with a dull thud that seemed to echo through the silent house. “Love? Are you insane? Love doesn’t mean anything. It’s a fairy tale and a fantasy. I don’t believe in it and you, you definitely shouldn’t either. There isn’t anything about me to love.”
“Owen, please!” She moved closer, reached out to touch him, but he pulled away, fearing her hand as though it was a viper. He couldn’t let her through him. One gentle touch could undo everything he believed. It could soften even the hardest of walls around his heart and he knew it. He had to leave.
He grabbed up his suitcase, turned and threw the heavy front door open. It had a stopper on the other side that it banged against. Maren trailed behind him, like the foam the waves brought in. it remained on the beach, lonely and forlorn.
His car was waiting for him in the same parking spot he’d left it. He threw open the door and slammed his suitcase into the passenger seat. He started it and it roared to life with a sound that was absolutely satisfying. He tore out of the spot, promising himself he wouldn’t look back.
Of course, he did. Maren was there on the porch, looking for all the world like a broken fairy or a shattered goddess. She was leaning up against one of the wooden columns, her hair a red, unearthly glow about her face, her strange grey eyes haunted. It was the tears that he’d remember most, he knew. He could see them even as he drove away, even as she faded into the distance, those shimmering tears standing out wet and so very real on her porcelain cheeks.
CHAPTER 13
Owen
Owen wasn’t sure why he expected to find joy anywhere, let alone back in Seattle. His old house was sold, the one he shared with Chelsea. He thought he would find a semblance of normalcy in his new home. It wasn’t a fresh start as he thought. It was filled with ghosts, though it was brand new. It was even emptier than before. He found out the hard way that it wasn’t the building that was the problem. It wasn’t any physical space. The problem was inside of him, his past, his memories.
The house had five bedrooms. Why he’d bought a new construction with so many rooms, all of them empty save for the few pieces of furniture he’d amassed since he moved, he couldn’t say. It was just something he did. He had the money. He liked the neighborhood. It just made sense.
Instead of being haunted by Chelsea’s face and memories from their shared past, he was now haunted by Maren. He dreamt of her at night. He saw her body, shimmering in the moonlight, her crown of hair illuminated in the silvery glow, her delicious, womanly body on display on the beach, standing there so confident, as though she really had just been born of the sea. He replayed that scene over and over. He’d thought that by going to Monterey he could banish his ghosts, but instead, he’d just exchanged them. Chelsea for Maren. She was with him wherever he went.
There was no escape. How could one escape their own mind?
Owen climbed into his king-sized bed at the end of a long day of meetings. He was exhausted. He hadn’t had a proper sleep since he left Monterey and it was showing. The deep purple smudges under his eyes were growing more pronounced. His secretary at work had asked him several times if everything was alright.
Out of desperation, he’d brought a glass of whiskey to bed, hoping that would put him to sleep. A sleep in which he didn’t dream, a sleep that wasn’t haunted.
He sipped back the glass, which he’d poured to the top. The amber liquid sloshed when he brought it to his mouth and tipped it. The first sips burned, but after that, the rest of the gl
ass went down smooth.
He’d hammered the entire glass back in a few minutes. He wasn’t even buzzed when he shut his eyes. He was so tired that sleep came easily. The blackness closed in right away. He didn’t fight it.
I love you. Maren’s voice, so soft and calm and pleading, drifted through his brain, cut him to shreds. He wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or awake.
All of a sudden, the darkness shifted. It wasn’t the black tide of sleep, but the black depths of water. He was sinking, struggling, his lungs filling up, burning, screaming for air. He was sinking, the undertow ripping at his swim shorts, tugging at his skin. He knew he was going to die.
His vision closed off, blackness dancing around his head, his eyes, his entire body on fire, burning with the pain of a thousand stabbing daggers, burning, burning. It was strange how drowning felt so much like flames licking his skin.
And suddenly she was there. Dainty arms closing around his chest, his shoulders, hauling him upwards. Those arms were so thin, so pale, but so strong. They were his hope and he floated with her, back up to the surface. The blackness closed in again and he felt nothing. He had the sensation that he was being dragged through the waves, the water sloshing over his head. He still couldn’t take a breath. Couldn’t open his eyes.
Her voice echoed through his head, through his mind, ripped his soul to shreds. Hang in there. We’re almost there. The shore is so close. Just hang on. Stay with me. Owen. Stay here with me. Just a minute more.
Maren’s voice. It broke through every single defense he tried to resurrect. His heart was as pain filled as his waterlogged lungs. She broke him and put him back together, sundered him to pieces and reassembled him.
He felt nothing, nothing until he was suddenly awake on the shore, the sun warming his icy skin, coughing, retching up salt water, gasping for air, coming back to life. Her arms were around him. No, when he looked up into the face it wasn’t Maren at all. It was Chelsea. She had her arms wrapped around him, the dark tendrils of her hair only damp at the ends.
