[York Bombers 01.0] Playing the Game

by Lisa B. Kamps

  She shook her head, shifted against his hold. "I don't care."

  The words hung between them, heavy in the silence. No, not heavy. Freeing. Harland groaned and grabbed her hips once more, bit down on his tongue to keep from shouting when she lowered herself on him. Inch by agonizing inch, his cock entered her wet heat. And fuck, she was tight. So tight. Almost as tight as—

  He drove into her, hearing the small gasps of pain mixed with pleasure when he buried himself deep inside. He held himself still, tried to catch his breath when he looked at her.

  "Courtney, I—did I hurt you?"

  "No."

  And God, all he wanted to do was drive into her. Over and over until he lost himself. But he couldn't, not when her brows were lowered over her closed eyes, not when she was biting down on her lower lip, her inner muscles clenching him.

  "I couldn't stand hurting you again." His voice was barely a whisper, filled with the sorrow and regret of wasted years. Her eyes fluttered open. She cupped his cheek with one hand and smiled.

  "I just need to—it's been…I haven't…"

  He heard the words, both what she said and what she didn't say. His heart exploded in his chest, his body igniting with possession. She was his. Nobody else's, even after all this time.

  His. Now. Always.

  He leaned forward and captured her mouth with his, the kiss deep and needy. Possessing, claiming. His hands tightened around her hips, guiding her as she rode him. Gently at first, then faster. She grabbed his hands, moved them to her breasts, her fingers digging into his wrists as she found her own rhythm.

  Driving. Desperate. Powerful. Using him. Making his body hers until her breath escaped on a silent scream and her head fell back, riding him through her climax. He gripped her hips, his fingers rough against her skin, and drove into her. Hard. Fast.

  Over and over. Deeper. Frantic. Harder, until his own climax exploded, filling her.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, felt her body collapse against his own as he fought for each breath. And then he just held her, their breathing settling, their hearts slowing.

  She pulled away first, pressed a quick kiss against his mouth and hurried to the small bathroom. Harland ran a hand through his hair, made an effort to regain his senses as she finished cleaning up before he used the room.

  He splashed water on his face then stared at his reflection in the mirror. Shouldn't he look different? Shouldn't such an earth shattering experience show on his face? In his eyes?

  He muttered several colorful words then went back to the living room, took a seat next to Courtney. He was surprised when she slid over next to him, ducked under his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.

  "Christ, I feel like I did when we were teenagers, sneaking around all the time." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, ran a hand along her shoulder. "You don't think your mom knows, does she?"

  "She knows. She knew back then, too."

  Harland tensed, part of him waiting for something to come flying at his head. Courtney laughed, the sound nothing more than a soft whisper. He grunted in response then reached behind him the for crocheted afghan and pulled it over them.

  How many times had they sat like this over the years? On this same sofa, under this same afghan? Watching television, talking, doing homework. Making out. Just being together.

  Harland tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer. "Are you okay? I mean with, you know—"

  She tilted her head back and placed a finger against his lips, silencing him. "Yes."

  Just one single word. Such a simple word—but one with life-altering consequences. Did Courtney know? Did she realize how things would change now? He doubted it. She wouldn't be curled up against him, so calm and relaxed, if she truly knew.

  She was his. She had always been his. And he wasn't going to let her go again.

  She stirred against him then pushed up, resting her elbow against his shoulder. Harland smiled at the similar pose, remembered how she always used to do that whenever they talked. Correction: whenever she wanted to talk.

  "So what happened last year?"

  "With what?"

  She hesitated, her eyes darting away from his for a quick second then shooting back. "With the Banners. With you getting sent back here. What happened?"

  "I was an asshole."

  "Harland—"

  "It's the truth. You keep screwing up, acting like I did, they tend to lose patience."

  "But why? What happened?"

  He looked away, tried to tamp down the flare of impatience—of humiliation. "Nothing. I don't want to talk about it."

  "Harland—"

  "I don't want to talk about it, okay? It's not important." No, it was childish. And foolish. And threatened to reopen wounds he thought long-ago healed. But he didn't miss the disappointment in Courtney's eyes when she looked at him. And he couldn't help but feeling as if he had just let her down. That he had just failed at…something.

  But she didn't push. And she stopped looking at him, too. Because he'd disappointed her? Or because she simply wanted to rest her head against his shoulder once more?

  "Do you think you'll go back?"

  "Where? To the Banners? Maybe." Yeah, when hell froze over. He'd done more than just burn those bridges—he'd completely annihilated them. If he was playing at the top of his game, he might have a small chance of getting back. Might. But he wasn't playing at the top of his game and hadn't been for a long time.

  He waited for Courtney to say something else, to ask him another question, but she stayed silent. He glanced down, saw the shadow of lashes resting against her cheek, saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

  She was sound asleep. In his arms.

  He smiled and pressed a gentle kiss against her temple then settled the afghan more comfortably around them. He would have preferred having her body curled around his in a bed but this was just as nice.

  Courtney was in his arms. It didn't matter where they were, as long as she was with him, where she belonged.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "What time did Harland sneak out this morning?"

  Courtney paused with the coffee cup halfway to her mouth. Her fingers tightened around the handle and she carefully lowered it to the table. Her eyes darted to her mom, expecting to see her standing there, one hand on her hip, a knowing expression on her face. But her mom was standing at the stove, her back to Courtney.

  "Uh—"

  "I don't know why he didn't just stay for breakfast. There's enough food for him. And I'm sure Noah would have loved for him to stay."

  Courtney dropped her head, trying to focus on the paperwork spread in front of her. Heat flamed her face, burning hot enough she was surprised the papers didn't scorch. Was her mother expecting an answer? Some kind of reply? Like what? How could Courtney even think of responding when her brain couldn't even function from embarrassment?

  Her mom kept talking, the words holding no meaning as Courtney tried to calm herself down. It was a completely different feeling knowing her mother knew than it was just suspecting her mother knew.

  Courtney turned her head, her gaze darting to the living room. She still couldn't believe they'd done it, right there on the sofa. Again.

  Done it? Oh God, she was even starting to think like a teenager again. She wasn't a teenager, wasn't a naïve young girl anymore—hadn't been for a long time. Having sex on the living room sofa while her son slept upstairs just struck her as wrong somehow.

  But it hadn't been just sex. No, they'd made love. At least, in her own mind, that's what happened. Did Harland feel the same way? Or was it nothing more than just quick journey into the past for old times' sake?

  No, she didn't think so. He'd been gentle in spite of the desperation she'd felt in him. Like being together—like being with her—was more important on a deeper level, more important than he could express with words.

  She almost snorted. Yeah, or maybe she was just fantasizing as a way to excuse h
er own desperation. And she had been desperate: desperate to feel him, touch him. Desperate for his own touches, desperate for him to claim her. Desperate to show him without words how she felt.

  Well, she had shown him something, no doubt about that. She just didn't know what that something was yet. And despite his awkwardness this morning, his hesitation, she didn't regret it. She knew he'd been worried about that, worried that she might be angry or filled with remorse. Or both. For someone who prided himself on being aloof and pretending he didn't need anyone, she had no trouble reading what was under the surface—probably because he'd made no attempt to hide it this morning.

  Yeah, and maybe because he'd come right out and asker her, too. Kind of hard to miss when it was that obvious. Did he believe her when she said she had no regrets? Maybe. At least, she thought he did.

  Or maybe he was able to see beneath her answer to what she didn't actually say. No, she had no regrets about what had happened—but she was disappointed that he'd shut down afterward. He'd been hiding something, refusing to open up about whatever had happened last year. She knew it, and he knew that she knew it.

  So why wouldn't he tell her? And did it really matter? In the grand scheme of everything else that had happened between them, did that one thing really matter?

  Yes, it did. Because he was hiding something. A piece of him, of who he was, something important. And that, for some reason, bothered her.

  "Courtney. Did you hear me?"

  "Hm?" She turned back, saw her mom standing there with two plates. She muttered an apology then quickly stacked the papers and moved them out of the way, making room for the plates.

  She pushed away from the table, gathered the napkins and silverware and Noah's small sippy cup. Then she went to get Noah. He was on the floor near his toy box, the stuffed plane Harland had given him after the game two months ago in one hand. In his other hand was the small plastic hockey stick he'd been given yesterday. He was taking turns flying the plane then swiping at the rug with the stick.

  Courtney stood there for a minute, just watching him. Did Noah understand who Harland really was? Or was he just some man who had suddenly started coming around, nothing more than a stranger who had entered their lives? How could she explain to Noah, to make him understand the truth?

  And oh God, did she even want to?

  Her eyes darted to the pictures on the entertainment center. Noah wasn't even three yet. Would he be able to recognize Harland from pictures that old? Would any child that young be able to make the connection?

  Courtney shook her head then moved toward Noah. She was being silly. Foolish. Stupid. And entirely too nostalgic. She picked up her son, her hand automatically reaching for the toys he refused to drop.

  "Come on, kiddo. No fighting today. Mommy's not in the mood. You know toys aren't allowed at the table." Or, in his case, the high chair.

  He grunted and shook his head, his arm dodging her reach every time she tried to grab the hockey stick. He did the same when she reached for the stuffed plane. Courtney stopped in the doorway, Noah wiggling in her arms, and looked to her mother for help.

  They finally got him settled, the toys placed off to the side where he could see them while he ate. Courtney refilled her coffee mug, made a fresh cup for her mother, then sat down to eat.

  She took a few bites, barely tasting the eggs and bacon, then placed her fork to the side of her plate and stared at Noah. He was completely oblivious of her scrutiny, totally absorbed in alternately eating his food and smearing it around his mouth.

  "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

  "Hm?" Courtney looked at her mother, saw the concern in her eyes. She shook her head and forced a smile to her face. "Nothing. Just thinking."

  "About Noah? Or about Harland?"

  "I don't know. Both, I guess." Courtney reached for her coffee then let her hand drop to the table. "Do you think he knows?"

  "Do I think who knows what?"

  "Noah. Do you think he knows Harland is his father?"

  Her mother folded her hands in front of her and turned in the chair to watch Noah. She was quiet for several long minutes before turning back and facing Courtney. "I think he might know something. They've certainly bonded rather quickly, haven't they?"

  "Yeah. I guess."

  "Hm."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing dear. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

  Courtney picked up her fork, dragged it through the congealed yolks of the eggs, put it back down without taking a bite. "Should I tell him?"

  "Tell who what?"

  "Mother! I know you're not that dense. Stop playing games. I'm being serious. I need your advice."

  Her mother raised a single brow in her direction. Courtney didn't miss the flash of amusement in her eyes. "Advice about what?"

  "Should I tell Noah? I mean, would he even understand? How would I even know if he made the connection? And how would I even let him know?"

  "Why the change of heart?"

  "What?"

  "Why the sudden change of heart? I seem to recall you had a very different opinion not very long ago. That you were very adamant about not wanting Harland in the picture."

  Courtney sat back in the chair, her shoulders slumping as she stared at the hands folded in her lap. She let out a quick breath and shrugged. "I was."

  "Then what changed?"

  "I don't know. I just…" Her voice trailed off, her mind spinning as she tried to answer the question. She just…what? Realized she was still in love with him? Yes, but that had nothing to do with this. Maybe, somewhere deep inside the smallest corner of her heart, there existed the tiniest sliver of hope that things might be different between them. That they might end up back together, try to work things out.

  Yes, they'd had sex—made love—last night. Yes, she'd fallen asleep in his arms. Yes, she still loved him. But she was a realist, had been for several years. Making love wasn't a magic pill that would make everything better. She knew enough to be able to separate the two, no matter how much she might wish otherwise.

  But it wasn't whatever was between them—or not between them—that was making her change her mind regarding Noah. It was the way Harland was with his son, the way he slid so naturally into the role of father. She had convinced herself this would be nothing more than a passing phase. A novelty that he would tire of.

  She didn't think that way anymore, not after seeing them together. Not after yesterday afternoon at the family skate.

  Her mom leaned over and ran one hand along Courtney's arm, much like Courtney did with Noah to comfort him. "So why the change of heart?"

  "I just…I'm not sure. No, that's not true. I thought…at first I thought he'd just get tired of playing at something and leave, you know? But after watching him with Noah, watching Noah with him—do you know he's trying to learn different signs? All on his own? And he even taught one to Noah yesterday. 'Hockey'."

  Courtney's mother laughed, the sound gentle and soothing. "Well of course he did. Makes perfect sense."

  "Yeah." Courtney smiled and looked at Noah. He looked so much like Harland. Had she just blocked that out these last two years? Probably. But she couldn't block it out now. "I was so afraid he'd just disappear again, you know? And I was worried about what would happen to Noah if that happened. But now…"

  "Now you think differently?"

  "Yeah. I do. Mom, if you could have seen them yesterday. Harland was so protective. And he was showing him off, introducing Noah to everyone as his son. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like Noah had always been a part of his life."

  Courtney hesitated then reached for her coffee and took a quick sip. She held the warm cup between her hands and stared into it. "I know it's crazy because it hasn't been that long. I mean, what? A little over two months? Compared to more than three years? It doesn't make sense. So why do I feel so certain that he's going to stick around? That he deserves to have Noah realize he's his father? Or is it j
ust wishful thinking and I really am crazy?"

  Her mother watched her for a long minute, her gaze direct enough that Courtney had to resist a serious urge to squirm. Then she reached out and placed a gentle hand on Courtney's arm once more. "Do you remember the first day you met Harland?"

  Courtney swallowed back the tears at the memory and nodded. How could she forget? She had been seven, and it had been the day of her father's funeral. They had come home, the house filled with strangers speaking in quiet whispers, shooting her looks of sympathy that she didn't quite understand. All she knew was something bad had happened, something sad and terrible that made her mother cry. Made her cry.

  She had run from the house, carrying a ragged doll that had been a present from her father the previous year. She only made it to the bottom step of the porch before she plopped down, not worried about getting her dress dirty, not worried about anything except the painful lump in her chest. She hugged the doll to her, thinking that maybe if she held it close enough, hard enough, that her father would come back from wherever he had gone.

  And then she had cried. Hard ragged tears that made it hard for her to breathe and left her hollow and drained. She'd heard footsteps on the sidewalk in front of her, saw a pair of beat-up dirty tennis shoes. She looked up, saw a strange boy standing in front of her, somehow knew he was the one who had just moved into the empty house the next block over.

  He watched her for the longest time through eyes a color she had never seen. Then he asked her why she was crying.

  Courtney had wiped her face, not caring about dirt or snot or anything, and told him her father had gone away. He nodded and just kept watching her. Then he told her that his mother had gone away too.

  And then he sat down next to her and hugged her with his skinny arms, letting her cry all over the front of his dirty shirt.

  Courtney took a ragged breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. She hadn't thought about that day since…she couldn't remember when.

  Her mother's voice was shaky when she spoke, filled with long-buried emotion. "I came outside, so worried about you, and saw this boy just holding you. He was dirty and sweaty and so…so gentle with you. And when he looked up at me with those eyes—" She took a deep breath and pushed away from the table, grabbed some tissues from the box on the small sideboard. She handed one to Courtney, used the other for her own eyes before she sat back down.