If It's Only Love

by Ryan, Lexi

  George has a daughter. Didn’t think Professor Douche had it in him. I wonder if the blonde knows. Or maybe the daughter is a convenient lie that allows him to lead a double life. “Shay, he was with somebody else.”

  She folds her arms and frowns. “Were you spying on him?”

  It’s official. She thinks I’m a psycho. Can I blame her? “It was a total coincidence that we were at the same restaurant, but it was a lucky one, if you think about it. I know it’s not my business. I know you want me to stay out of your relationship—”

  “And yet here we are.”

  “He was all over this woman.”

  She just stares at me.

  Jesus. Was I wrong about this? Does she have some sort of open relationship with this guy? It seems so out of character. “That doesn’t bother you at all?”

  I swear hurt flashes in her eyes before she cuts her eyes away from me. “It doesn’t matter.”

  How the fuck does that not matter? “Because you broke up?”

  “Because we’re . . . seeing other people.”

  “Clearly he is seeing other people. What other people are you seeing?”

  She drops her arms. “Have a nice night, Easton. I have shit to do. And for the record, I don’t need you barging into my life and trying to fix everything.”

  “When are you going to stop pretending we don’t have anything to talk about?”

  “When I’m feeling up for the conversation.”

  “How can I make you feel up for it, Shay? Tell me.” I lower my voice. “If you’ll listen to nothing else I have to say, at least let me apologize for your dad’s funeral. I never should’ve told you. It was wrong, and it was selfish. I wish I could take it back.”

  She stares through me, and the ache in my chest amplifies with each second. “You’re right. It was selfish, and I wish you could take it back too. But you can’t. You can’t change any of it, so please stop trying to bring it all back to the surface.” She turns on her heel and walks away. I don’t take my eyes off her as she strides purposefully all the way to the bar and disappears into the kitchen.

  Fuck that. I push out of the booth to follow her.

  “Hey, East. How’s it going?” Carter asks. Unless I missed him when I got here—which, to be fair, is completely plausible—he must’ve arrived while I was talking to Shay.

  “Just trying to get your sister to give me the time of day.”

  He lifts his chin, his jaw hardening. I wonder if Carter has ever noticed that his sister is all grown up now. But then he says, “Good luck with that.”

  I push into the kitchen after Shay and find her standing with her arms braced against the stainless-steel counter, her head bowed. “If you’re here to give me more of your opinions on George, save your breath.”

  “You deserve better than him. Is that really what you want? A relationship with a guy who doesn’t even realize how amazing you are? If you were mine . . .” My stomach cramps. She was mine. For the briefest moment, Shay was all mine. And I lost her. I knew I screwed up, but at the time, I was doing what I had to do. And I can’t regret any choice that gave me my daughter. “I wish I’d handled everything better.”

  She releases a puff of air and shakes her head.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Shay?”

  When she turns and meets my eyes again, only bitterness glitters in hers. “You didn’t have to sleep with me. You didn’t even have to kiss me. You could’ve been the hero just by showing up in Paris when I needed a friend. Then none of this . . .”

  “You want me to regret that night or just apologize for what happened after?” I prowl forward, caging her against the counter. Her brothers are on the other side of the kitchen door and could walk in here any minute. I lower my mouth to her ear before I continue. “I don’t regret taking you to bed. I’m not sorry that I made you moan my name even if the sound has haunted me, even if knowing how good we were together made me miss you that much more.”

  She uncurls her hands from my shoulders but doesn’t push me away. I brush my hand along the side of her jaw, and her breath shudders out of her.

  “Do you truly not feel this? Did it end for you?” I close my eyes. I need to back away, but I don’t want to. She’s letting me touch her. Letting me close. “Because it didn’t end for me. I don’t think it ever will.”

  She stares at me for a long beat before sliding out from between me and the counter and turning into the office just off the kitchen. Am I supposed to follow her or let her go?

  Jesus, if I had any clue how to let Shay go, I would’ve done it ten years ago. I follow and close the door behind me. “We need to figure this out.”

  She spins back to me, her eyes blazing. “Do it yourself.”

  I huff out a laugh and prowl toward her. “What did you say?”

  Those defiant eyes brim with tears and her bottom lip trembles. “I said do it yourself. I have nothing to say, but you’re the one so determined that we have this conversation.”

  I come closer. She backs against the wall, and I keep coming until there are only inches between us. “That’s real mature, Shay.” I cup her jaw and stroke her bottom lip with my thumb as I study her face. “This is what you want?” I dip my head and bring my mouth a breath from hers. “You want me to corner you and make you talk? Maybe I need to remind you how good we are together.” I cock my head to the side, touching the bridge of my nose to hers. “You try to keep hating me, but you lose your grip on it when I get close, so I wonder what would happen if I got closer.”

  Her breath is sweet against my lips, and she grabs my arms and curls her fingers into my biceps.

  “Is that how it has to be, then? You want me to press you against this wall and kiss you until you can’t remember your name and can’t blame yourself for letting your guard down?”

  Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers and her back bows as she arches into me. “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Bullshit. But maybe first you want me to track down that fucker you’re sleeping with—the one who you’re fine to let ‘see other people’? I could throw my weight around a little. He’d probably leave you alone just so he doesn’t have to deal with me.” I drag my nose along her cheek until my mouth is at her ear. “Then you wouldn’t have to tell him that you don’t want him. You wouldn’t ever have to admit that even after all these years, even after all the shit fate threw at us and all the mistakes I made, you still want me more than you’ll ever want him.”

  She swallows, and when she draws in a breath, I think she’s going to deny it. But she doesn’t say a word. Her only response is sliding a hand up to cup the back of my neck. Fuck yes.

  “I’m not going to do that for you.” It takes every drop of my will to force myself to step back. “I want you to talk to me. I want you to scream at me for every shitty decision I ever made. Then I want you to kiss me and tell me I get another chance. I want you to break it off with that douchebag completely and be with me, but I’m not going to do it for you.” I take another step toward the door. “You’re going to have to make the choice yourself.”

  My hand’s on the knob when she says, “East. Stop.”

  I turn back to her, just like she knew I would, and she’s right there. She pushes me against the door with flat palms to my chest. Then she has a hand in my hair and is tugging my mouth down to hers. And the taste of her . . . Fuck. She’s better than I remembered, and as soon as those lips part under mine, I’m all in—kissing her with more intensity than I’ve ever kissed anyone.

  Our mouths are eager, desperate, nipping and stroking. This isn’t making love with our mouths. If there’s a kissing equivalent to fucking, this is it. Her hands tangle and tug in my hair and she presses herself against me like she’s trying to mold us together permanently.

  But I’m too damn tall and I need her closer. I grip her behind her thighs and hoist her up. I spin to press her against the door, and she hooks her feet behind my back, lockin
g us into place, right where we match. She rocks into me, and Christ. So good. Her body. Her hands. Her mouth. Everything. All over.

  I know what she’s saying. It didn’t end for her either. She feels something when I’m close. Despite my mistakes, she’s never stopped wanting me.

  Clinging to my self-control, I try to slow the pace, stroking a hand up her side, caressing the curve of her breast with my thumb. She tugs harder at my hair and bites my bottom lip until it stings. I’ll give her whatever she wants. This girl could ask me to bleed out, and I’d be helpless to deny her. In seconds, my rhythm matches hers. I’m wild, frantic. I’m terrified she’ll walk away again.

  I pinch her nipple through her bra and greedily swallow the sound of her moan. She rubs against me, as desperate as I am for connection. When her hand comes down between our bodies and she unbuttons my pants, I groan. “Shay. Fuck. Slow down.” Her hand’s in my pants, stroking me, squeezing me.

  “Condom,” she says.

  I pull away and shake my head. I don’t have one. “Sorry. I wasn’t prepared for this.” But it’s better, right? We need to slow down. To put on the brakes for a second and fucking talk about what’s happening right now.

  “Top drawer.” She nods to the desk.

  I don’t want to let her go, but I know what she’s saying—condoms, in there. “Good to know.” I trail an open mouth down her neck. I’m so proud of myself. It’s taking superhuman strength of will to ignore the fact that there are condoms a couple of yards away. I could be suited up and inside her in less than a minute. Instead, I stroke the nipple I just pinched and slowly lick the column of her neck. “You’re as sweet as I remember,” I say, but I want to sample every inch, just to be sure.

  A frustrated growl tears out of her. “Condom,” she repeats.

  “Shay . . .”

  She untangles herself from me, dropping her feet to the floor and pushing me away.

  I drag a hand through my hair and try to catch my breath—try to think one clear thought that doesn’t involve taste, suck, fuck—but she’s opened a desk drawer and pulled out a condom, and I’m a goner.

  She holds my gaze as she inches a hand under her dress and pulls down her panties. They’re black, lacy, and hot as hell, but they have nothing on her. She saunters back to me, a spark of challenge in her dark eyes. I’m a desperate fool, because when she frees my cock from my underwear, I can only watch, dumbstruck and entranced, as she rolls the latex over me.

  She tangles her hands in my hair again, tugging me down to her. I try to kiss her gently, but she turns it savage fast, and I can’t help but respond in kind—nipping, sucking, biting. I could eat her up right here. And fuck, I want to.

  She hitches a leg over my waist, and I feel her notched against me—feel her heat and her wet pussy. I’m helpless to resist. I lift her and spin us around until she’s pressed against the wall. I hold her gaze as I slowly lower her onto my shaft. My breath rushes out of me as she clenches around my cock.

  “You feel so good,” I whisper, and she covers my mouth with hers and moves her hips in a silent demand for action.

  This isn’t the reunion I’ve fantasized about. It’s primitive need—her nails scraping down my back, her teeth sinking into my neck, her breathy plea of harder until I’m fucking her against the goddamn wall of her brother’s office. Not what I imagined, but it’s good. So good. I lose myself a little and forget where we are and why this is a bad idea, why this is too soon and too fast. My thoughts have narrowed to the most primitive instincts to thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat, my attention focused on the way her body perfectly fits mine and the sound of her moans as she buries her face in my neck.

  She’s close. I feel it in the sudden tension in her body, the way she’s clenched around my cock. I slip a hand between our bodies and find her clit. She may have set the pace, but I’ll be damned if she walks out of this office without coming. I stroke tiny circles around that sensitive spot, and her breathing hitches and her hips shift, seeking the friction where she needs it. When I give her what she wants, she bucks wildly against me. Her body squeezes so tightly as she comes that I forget to breathe. Then I’m coming right behind her with my own pounding thrust of my hips—barely breathing, barely thinking, barely anything but an animal seeking release.

  I hold her, clutching her close as I bury my face in her neck. The smell of her is a drug. I want it on my pillow. I want it in my house. I want to wake up to this scent every day.

  She grips my shoulders, squeezing before she pushes me back. I gently lower her to the ground. She searches my face, and I wait, wondering what she can really see in my eyes. Can she see how I feel about her or does she just see the man who hurt her?

  “Thanks,” she whispers, biting back a smile.

  I choke on a laugh. “Um, you’re welcome?”

  Pans clang outside the office, and I wince. Right. We just had sex in the middle of her family’s bar. In Jake’s office.

  “Have you seen Easton?”

  Shay and I share a moment of wide-eyed horror at the sound of Carter’s voice.

  Someone clears his throat. “Don’t see him, nope.” Jake.

  If I had to guess, “don’t see him” means he knows damn well where I am and is trying to save me a beating. I definitely owe him.

  “Well, if you do, tell him Scarlett Lashenta is out front asking for him.”

  I feel like I’ve been punched. Not because of Scarlett. I can deal with her. But because Shay’s pink cheeks just turned ashen. Because this is really shitty timing. Again.

  I catch her gaze and shake my head. “Don’t freak out,” I whisper.

  Jake coughs. “Scarlett is here?”

  “Yep,” Carter says. “And not even a little incognito. She’s holding court at the bar.”

  “I have to see this,” Jake says.

  The sound of their voices fades until I can only assume they’ve left the kitchen.

  “She’s right on time,” Shay says, a cruel smile twisting her lips.

  “She likes to be unpredictable,” I tell her. “It’s just the way she is.”

  She huffs out a wry laugh and bends over to grab her panties off the floor. “You’d better get out there before she comes in here looking for you. I’m sure she has some life-changing news.”

  “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me down.” I swallow. “Shay, what just happened between us . . . That was too fast. I’m sorry.”

  She pulls her underwear up her legs then smooths down her dress. She won’t even look at me. “Stop being a prude. We scratched that itch, and now we can move on.”

  Is she kidding me? “You’re going to drag me in here, beg me to fuck you senseless against the wall, and then go back to being cold? Back to hating my guts?”

  She shrugs. “That’s all we’re good for, Easton. Fucking. Getting each other off.” She rakes her gaze down my body and back up. “And you’re good, I’ll give you credit for that. But I do remember you having a little more stamina.”

  I don’t take the bait. If she wants to judge me for lasting less than ten minutes when I’ve wanted her for years, she can fucking judge me. That’s not the part of her little speech that bothers me. “We still need to talk.” It sounds so ridiculous now with a used condom hanging off my dick and my ex-wife in the next room. Grabbing a tissue from the desk, I clean up the condom and zip up my pants.

  When I turn back to her, she’s frozen by the door, like she’s torn between running away and chewing me out.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking I was the most obvious person to warm your bed since you’re back in this tiny town, but now she’s here, so I can go.”

  I press a palm flat to the wall to steady myself. “That’s fucking unfair, and you know it. I never assumed you’d climb back into bed with me. I want what we had.”

  “We talked. Then we fucked.” She cocks her head to the side, ice-cold Shay returning so quickly I have whiplash. “Don’t you remember how it
goes? Next, you walk away.”

  “Shay—” I reach for her, but she shakes out of my grasp and pushes past me and out the door. I see her run for the back exit and watch the door shut behind her.

  Shay

  June 3rd, ten years ago

  I’m exhausted. I got home yesterday from my month in Paris. Mom drove to Chicago because she wanted to be the one to pick me up from the airport and the first to hear all about my trip. We spent the evening hanging out at one of her favorite lakeside restaurants as she regaled me with questions and demanded to know every detail.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Easton. My memories of our night and day together are so precious, and I want to keep them locked away like rare, ancient tomes whose pages can disintegrate with human touch.

  Then last night I fell into bed, convinced I’d fall comatose for twelve hours, but I could barely sleep. After tossing and turning for six hours, I gave up, made a pot of coffee, and wished I didn’t have this horrible, aching worry in my chest regarding Easton’s silence.

  When I can’t handle it anymore, I text him.

  Me: Are you free? I need to talk.

  Easton: Give me two minutes and I’ll call.

  I set my phone down on the coffee table and squeeze my eyes shut. Just two minutes.

  Another wave of exhaustion washes over me, and I lean back on the couch and put my hand flat against my chest. I just want to go home—my Jackson Harbor home, not this Chicago rental I share with three other girls. I want to curl up in my own bed and hide under my own blankets. I want Easton to find me there, crawl in bed beside me, and tell me it’s going to be okay. Tell me he hasn’t been avoiding me.

  Easton texted me when he got home, but then his messages became . . . sparse. He said we’d talk when I got home from Paris, that he didn’t want to bother me during my trip, but something felt off.

  My phone buzzes, and I jerk upright, reaching for it. Easton’s face grins back at me from the screen. It’s a picture I took of him when we were eating gelato in Montmartre. He’s grinning and has a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. The picture fills me with conflicting emotions so intense that I feel like I might be torn in two. Joy, because that was the best day of my life. And longing, because whatever we had in Paris is already slipping away.