Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone

by Jeana E. Mann

  Chapter Twenty

  Rhett

  I went slow anyway. Not because of her physical frailties, but because she deserved to be handled with care. The haunted look in her eyes suggested someone—probably Walt the Wanker—hadn’t respected her body or her soul. I wanted to erase him from her thoughts and replace every one of his touches with mine.

  Keeping my shit together took more self-control than I’d thought possible. With every thrust, each shift of her hips, my dick pulsed and my balls tightened. Her kitten moans made me crazy, ramping up my desire until I lost coherent thought. When her legs clamped around my waist and her pussy quivered, I let go. I became an animal, grunting and thrusting, taking her, giving her all of me. I nipped the skin below her ear, sucking on the soft flesh, marking her as mine.

  My orgasm rippled down the length of my thighs. I stilled, riding the high. Sex with Hayden had been impersonal, more about getting off than fulfilling the emptiness inside me. As I rolled off Bronte, I tucked her into crook of my arm. I hadn’t expected the rush of emotions at the sight of her swollen lips and the shine in her eyes. The strange tug at my heart caught me off guard. I wanted to protect her and make love to her and keep her safe from all the other assholes in the world who might try to take advantage of her.

  “Comfortable?” I asked her.

  “Yes.” A dreamy sigh followed her answer. “I can’t keep my eyes open.”

  “Go ahead and sleep. You’re welcome to stay the night.” I dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I can take you home in the morning. Or maybe I’ll just keep you all day.”

  Within seconds, her breathing evened out. I reached across her to turn out the lamp. My gaze connected with the framed photo of Amy on the nightstand. I turned the picture face down. I waited for the guilt, but it never arrived. Instead, I felt irritated. How long was I going to punish myself for her death?

  Memories of our last night together flooded back. We’d argued about the text messages I’d found to her boss. They’d been having an affair. There had been no remorse, no denial. She’d been in love with him. He was going to leave his wife. She’d wanted a divorce. My mind had reeled at her confessions. I’d been too stunned to react when she’d stepped off the curb without looking. I’d replayed the scene in my head a million times. There was nothing I could have done differently. No amount of regret or self-loathing would change those last moments.

  A few hours later, I woke from a fitful sleep, drenched in sweat, with a naked Bronte draped over me. I gently untangled our limbs and went into the bathroom to splash water on my face. After a few minutes, I heard her call from the bed.

  “Rhett, are you okay?” Her voice sounded uncertain.

  One glance at my reflection showed the color had drained from my face. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Hurry up. I’m cold.” The thought of her nude and shivering in my bed snapped me out of my funk.

  When I came out, she had the blanket tucked beneath her arms and Amy’s photograph in her hands. “This is your wife?” I nodded. Bronte’s brows drew together. “She looks like Freya.”

  “They’re twins,” I replied and pressed my lips together.

  “And Freya’s your assistant. Isn’t that a little weird?”

  Carter’s admonitions replayed in my ears again. Fucker. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “Freya? Hell no.”

  “I meant Amy.”

  I had to think for a minute. In the months before Amy’s accident, we’d barely seen each other. She’d said my snoring kept her awake, so I’d moved to the guest bedroom. “I loved her in the beginning, but we’d grown apart at the end.” I’d been too hung up on doing the right thing to recognize the break in our marriage. “About ten minutes before she stepped in front of the bus, she asked me for a divorce.” It was the first time I’d told anyone other than Carter. The burden of secrets lightened considerably.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I took the picture from Bronte and studied Amy’s smile. The photo had been taken when we’d been in college, when we’d been in love. It was one of the last truly happy times I could remember in our relationship. “We’d been hiking that day. It was my birthday.”

  “Oh.” Bronte looked down at the bedspread. “I suppose you miss her a lot.”

  I lifted the blankets and slid beneath them where it was warm. Winter was fast approaching and had brought a chill to the air. I opened the nightstand drawer and dropped Amy’s picture inside. “We were married for eight years, together for ten. When you’re with someone for that long, you get used to having them around.”

  “I’ve never been in a relationship like that. There was a guy in high school, but we never went anywhere or did anything.” She slid further beneath the bedclothes, drawing the blanket up to her chin.

  “Walt the Wanker?”

  “Yes.” To my relief, she smiled. “He was a wanker. All we ever did was have sex, and he told all his friends that I was a retarded slut. I was so desperate to fit in with the popular kids that I let him treat me like shit.”

  My fingers curled into fists. “Is this wanker going to be at your reunion?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I hope he is. I’m going to kick his ass.” I took her chin and tilted her face up to mine. Our eyes met, sending a delightful shiver down my back. “You deserve to be treated like a princess. Don’t ever forget it. And if a guy treats you any other way, you need to ditch him.” The blueness of her eyes made my heart skip a beat. Fuck me, she was a mass of contradictions—smart yet naïve, complicated but simple. After the way she’d sucked my cock last night, I couldn’t call her innocent any longer. My dick twitched at the memory. “Promise me you’ll never let that happen.”

  “Okay, I promise.” Confusion clouded her eyes. “Why do you care?”

  The directness of her question set me back a pace. I did care, more than I realized. I threaded my fingers through hers and kissed her knuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you. You’re very special, Bronte.” "

  “I hate that word.” A tremor ran through her body.

  “When I say special, I mean unique, extraordinary, remarkable. If Walt the Wanker didn’t realize what he had, then he was an idiot.” A half smile tilted her lips. “I bet Walt is bald and fat with ten kids by ten different women.”

  She laughed. “I hope so. That would be karma.”

  With my hands on her waist, I shifted, rolling her on top of me. She placed her hands on my chest for balance, settling her thighs on either side of my waist. The long waves of her hair cascaded over her shoulders, messy and wanton. I liked her this way, relaxed and smiling. I lifted my hips pressing my growing erection into her. A lightness of being filled my soul.

  “Do you believe in karma?” I asked.

  “Not really. There’s no empirical evidence to support that theory. But I like to think there’s order to the universe. And I do believe that for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Cause and effect are basic principles. So, it kind of makes sense. I think our actions are like throwing a stone into a pond. Whatever we do causes a ripple effect, reaching far beyond ourselves, influencing the lives of others, with myriad consequences.”

  “You’re scary smart, Bronte.” Her palms skated up my chest. I sat up, gathering her to me. “I’m pretty sure you’re a lot smarter than me.”

  “Probably,” she said, burying her face into my neck, peppering kisses below my ear. Her lips curved into a smile against my skin. “But I like you anyway.” It was said without the slightest hint of arrogance. I laughed, feeling the last bonds of depression snap and release. “How many condoms do you have?”

  “I have a box,” I replied. “Why? How many do we need?”

  “Several.”

  “Not three or eight or four?” I teased.

  “Not three. That’s an odd number. It would have to be two. I think four might be too many.” Her serious answer caus
ed another rumble of laughter in my chest. She shoved my shoulder. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  I flipped her onto her back, eliciting a squeal of surprise, and settled between her thighs. Our eyes met. I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone so perfectly imperfect before or since. “Well then. I guess we’ll just have to find out.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bronte

  I awoke to the press of Rhett’s lips on my shoulder. Yellow sunshine streamed through the blinds and puddled on the bed. Rhett shifted beside me, easing onto his side. His hair stood on end, a frazzled, sexy mess. Memories of the many ways he’d fucked me brought a rush of heat to my face.

  “Morning, angel,” he said.

  “Good morning.” I stretched, trying to be normal, but had no idea how to go about it. The pleasant ache of overused muscles greeted me. I groaned.

  “Sore?” he asked. His eyes searched mine. “You were quite the vixen last night.” My temperature increased until my cheeks burned. “I had no idea you were so limber.”

  “I do yoga to relieve stress and improve my motor skills. I’m pretty clumsy, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Is it working?” The tips of his fingers tickled along my sternum and down to my tummy.

  “What do you think?” I rolled my eyes, thinking of the way I’d tripped over his feet at the chocolate shop.

  “I think it’s definitely an asset in the bedroom.” In one deft motion, he moved to the side and onto his feet. “So what do you want to do today? We could go for a walk and visit the ducks again. Anything you want. You tell me.”

  “A walk would be nice.” Fresh air and exercise seemed to curb my symptoms. If the brightness outside the window was any indication, it was a beautiful day. “What do you usually do on Sundays?”

  “Work out, catch up on personal emails, watch TV.” His gaze roved over me, darkening from their usual gray-blue to charcoal. “On second thought, maybe we should stay in.”

  Rhett knew exactly where to touch me, the way to shift his hips, how to prolong my pleasure while enhancing his. Amy had been a lucky woman. I tried to chase thoughts of her from my head, but it was difficult with so many reminders in the apartment. I understood his reluctance to let her go. I clung to mementos of my mother with both hands, afraid she might slip away altogether if I lost the dear treasures. Rhett deserved his memories, and I’d never begrudge him of them. She was everywhere—her photos on the walls, portraits on the mantel, and feminine touches in the décor. I could get over those things, but it was the wedding band on the bathroom sink that bothered me the most. He’d loved her, married her, and planned for a future with her. Despite the ugliness of their last minutes together, he’d belonged to her. A ripple of jealousy snaked up my spine.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus on the present. We both had baggage, and if he could overlook mine, I could most certainly overlook his. One of his hands smoothed up the length of my thigh to grip my hip and squeezed. His skin slid against mine, the friction exquisite. I moaned and nipped his shoulder.

  “Does that feel good?” he asked.

  “You know it does,” I replied on a sigh. “You’re very good at this.”

  This time our lovemaking was slow and languid. He entwined his fingers with mine and stretched my arms over my head. With the full weight of his body on me, I felt every inch of his torso, his taut abdomen, his muscular thighs. Our gazes interlocked, his eyes never leaving mine. My insides trembled. My body was naked, but my soul was bare as well. This was personal and dug up emotions I’d never experienced. He saw past my flaws, the clumsiness, the red hair and freckles, to the real me.

  “Pull your knees up,” he whispered. I raised my legs to his waist. Two fingers drifted over the tender spot behind my knee. “Keep them there and don’t put them down until I tell you.”

  “I like rules,” I murmured. He shifted, hitting the magic place deep inside me. I moaned, overcome by the pleasure. My fingers tangled in his hair and buried in its thickness. “I like it when you tell me what to do.”

  “Do rules make you feel safe?” he asked. The gleam of interest brightening his eyes both excited and thrilled me.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want more?” His touch was always gentle, always confident.

  “Yes.” I wanted so much more—more of his taste, more of his fingers, more of his tongue.

  “Grab the headboard with both hands. Don’t let go unless I tell you.”

  I lifted my arms over my head and wrapped my fingers around the bars of the iron headboard. Carrying his weight on his elbows, he twisted his hips sharply to one side then the other. Intense pleasure rocketed into my core. I gasped, overwhelmed by the sensations of fullness and friction. I tried to let go, but his frown stopped me.

  “Keep your hands there,” he warned. His lips found my breast. My nipples stung as blood rushed into the tips. His tender touch filled my body with an unresolved ache. “Promise me.”

  “I promise.” The bedsprings creaked under the shift of our weight. A spasm fluttered along my inner walls.

  “You feel so good, Bronte.” His voice deepened, the edges of his words frayed by lust. “It’s never been like this for me.” The color of his eyes darkened to a rich slate, flecked with navy. “I want to make this last all morning, but I’m going to come.” The tendons stood out on his neck. His thrusts became uncontrolled, desperate, his words guttural. “Oh, God, I can’t— Fuck.”

  I rocked into him, clinging to the headboard. His eyes found mine, and the caring in them sent me over the edge. His nostrils flared, the long muscles of his legs tensed, and his body trembled. An orgasm rippled through my center and radiated out to my fingertips. I squeezed the headboard rails until my knuckles ached, tightening my legs around his waist. Our gazes remained locked. I saw the play of emotions in the depths of his eyes—awe, relief, and something primal. The experience transcended intimacy and added another layer to our already complex relationship.

  My heart hammered against my ribs. We stared at each other. I didn’t know how to handle the rush of emotions. My analytical brain tried to rationalize my feelings. Sex released dopamine and oxytocin. These feel-good hormones encouraged pair bonding in humans, especially females. What I’d experienced was a trick of Mother Nature, meant to encourage reproduction. All the science in the world couldn’t explain away the insatiable need to smooth his hair, to hold him close, to make him smile.

  A rattle from the living room perked my ears. “Did you hear something?”

  “No.” He rolled to the side and stretched languidly. Sunlight illuminated the naked expanse of his torso, sparking off the rich brown hair of his chest. One corner of his mouth curled into an ornery grin. “You can let go of the headboard now.”

  “Oh.” I bit my lower lip and slowly lowered my arms. My fingers and biceps ached from gripping the bars so tightly.

  “I want you to know this isn’t a one-time thing for me. I’m not that kind of guy. I’ve only slept with a couple of women.” While he spoke, he smoothed a fingertip along the midline of my chest, between my breasts and down to my belly button, making me smile. “A few girls in high school, Amy and now you. And Hayden.”

  “So you weren’t dating her?” Although his words warmed me, a sliver of jealousy prickled along the back of my neck at the mention of Hayden.

  “Oh, hell no. She was a one-night stand. The only one I’ve ever had.” He turned onto his back and folded his arms behind his head to stare at the ceiling. “I met her at a bar. Carter talked me into going home with her. He convinced me that I needed to sleep with someone else to move on from Amy. Huge mistake.”

  “She’s pretty.” I bit my lower lip as insecurities erased my confidence.

  “You’re prettier.” He turned on his side again, placing a hand on my hip and tugging me toward him. My breasts flattened against his chest. He dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose, my eyelids then my lips. “You have a light inside that gives your skin a glow, and your eyes�
��I could stare into them all day.”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. No one had ever called me pretty. I wasn’t about to argue with him. He’d never lied to me, but I still found it hard to believe. “When I was a kid, my classmates made fun of me for my freckles and red hair. And it didn’t help that I had to ride the short bus to school.”

  “You were bullied?” His eyes widened, brimming with sympathy.

  “I guess. Jo got expelled for fighting because she was defending me. She had to finish her senior year at a different school.” Remembering caused the walls of my throat to thicken. She’d always had my back, and I’d been hateful to her the last time we’d talked. “The only person who was ever nice to me was Walt. But then I found out he was making fun of me behind my back.” Tears burned my eyes. I blinked them back, determined not to cry over a bastard like him. “He had one of his friends hide in the closet and take pictures while we had sex. Then he passed the pictures around to all his buddies.”

  “Motherfucker,” Rhett said. He put a finger beneath my chin, tilting my face up to look at him. “You’re definitely going to this reunion. He’s going to shit when he sees how successful and smart you are, and I want to be there to see it.”

  His words, his touch, the sincerity in his eyes—they made me feel hopeful for the future, that maybe I could live a normal life after all.

  The wood floor squeaked in the hallway, and a half second later the bedroom door opened. Rhett swore and yanked the sheet over our naked bodies. I twisted to look over my shoulder.

  Freya stood in the doorway, eyes wide, and eyebrows raised. The shape of her mouth formed a perfect O. “Oh, no. I’m so—I’m sorry. I didn’t think you were home. I—I just stopped by to bring your laundry.” She backed out of the door, knocking over a chair on her way. The laundry basket landed on the floor with a thud. Her rapid footsteps echoed down the hall. The front door slammed.