More Than Love You

by Shayla Black

  Griff gestures to his brother. “See what I mean?”

  “And what about you?” I ask to keep them on track. “Five days after knowing Britta?”

  “I hadn’t even touched her yet.”

  Somehow, I manage to hold in my sigh of exasperation. “Five days after you had?”

  He bobs his head. “Yeah, I was still in the phase where I thought it was all about sex.”

  Maxon scowls. “You thought that for the better part of a year.”

  “That’s my point.” I lean in. “I’m not sure yet that I’m spending the rest of my life with Harlow, but what I do know? I’m intrigued and I’m not ready to give up on her. But she’s frustrating the shit out of me. She barely admits she has feelings, much less discusses them with me. Can you either shed some light or give us a little space so I can figure her out and decide where we’re going from here?”

  The men exchange a long, silent glance full of bro-speak.

  Finally, Maxon turns to me with a sigh. “We don’t know what’s up with Harlow. We’ve been wondering ourselves.”

  “And worrying,” Griff adds. “Since my brother and I both got married, I thought we’d gotten closer to her.”

  “What he means is that since we both pulled our heads out of our asses and figured out this love thing is actually real, we’ve grown closer to Harlow. So when she burned Butler at their wedding so epically, it was great…but it was a total shock.”

  “The fact that she didn’t tell us in advance and hasn’t spoken to us about it since except to say that she’s fine troubles us a lot,” Griff puts in. “Sorry if we came off hostile. When you were just a guy who wanted to use her while she was hurting, I was ready to be a major pain in your ass. But if you’re all about finding out where Harlow’s head is and trying to help her work through it, count me in.”

  Maxon is already nodding before his brother even finishes speaking. “That’s where I’m coming from, too.”

  I breathe out a sigh of relief. I managed an important conversation with Harlow’s brothers without going mute. I’m calling that a huge win. The question is, how do I morph this into a meaningful victory that will help me unravel the mystery of Harlow?

  “How do you think that went?” Harlow asks as she eases into the passenger seat beside me and I put the SUV in reverse.

  “Good.” I back out of the driveway, feeling exhilarated. It was actually far better than I expected. No, I don’t have all the answers, but I have less pressure and more information than I had before. “What about you?”

  “It was nice to see everyone. They seemed like they were in a good mood. And my brothers didn’t murder you when you three disappeared for some bro-time.”

  “Nope. I was surprised too, especially when they mentioned that they used to be complete assholes.”

  “Oh, my god. Everyone hated them. You would have, too. They even stopped speaking to each other for three years over a stupid misunderstanding because they’re both so stubborn and competitive.”

  “Seriously?” I would never have guessed that. They seem really tight. “What changed?”

  “Keeley.” At my confused glance, Harlow laughs. “Long story. But if not for her, I suspect my brothers would still be rivals.”

  I’m going to have to hear this whole story sometime. I also want to know how Griff didn’t know he had a son for years. That sounds as if it involved a whole lot of hurt. And mule-headedness.

  I’ll bet it runs in the family, and I’m up against even thicker barriers than I imagined.

  “Your sisters-in-law must have shitloads of patience and spines of steel.”

  “Yeah, they’re badass. They’ve learned not to flinch, thank god. I can’t imagine living with either of my brothers. They can be single-minded and unbending as hell.”

  Yep, definitely runs in the family.

  “They said putting up with your parents was no picnic, either,” I say experimentally.

  Harlow fidgets in her seat. “No one ever accused Barclay and Linda of being a barrel of fun.”

  “So your mom was too involved and self-absorbed?”

  “Pretty much. She wasn’t all terrible, but as I got older I became aware that a lot of the nice things she did with and for me were for show.”

  I nod slowly and study Harlow to gauge her reaction to my next words. “What about your dad? You barely mention him.”

  Her entire body tightens for a moment. It’s subtle but unmistakable. “There was a time I wanted to be a daddy’s girl, like some of my friends. Then I realized that he was only interested in cultivating the Reed offspring with dangling penises. Apparently, brains reside there, not the skull—silly me—so my dad didn’t think a little girl served much purpose in his life.”

  And his dismissive indifference had hurt. Harlow doesn’t admit that, of course, but I see it in the press of her lips and the way she avoids my gaze. Has her father’s attitude colored her relationships with all men?

  “But he wanted you to marry Simon to help him?”

  “Yeah.”

  No expounding on the topic. No saucy comeback. Just a flat statement of fact.

  That isn’t like Harlow. I’m rapidly learning with this woman that I should listen to what she says, but pay even more attention to what she doesn’t—and won’t. This conversation tells me I need to dig deeper into her relationship with her father.

  “He sounds like a real bastard,” I remark.

  “Pretty much. My brothers were shaping up just like him. I’m really happy they’re settled and seem so ecstatic with their lives now.” She smiles sincerely. “And I’m thrilled that you didn’t have a verbal issue all night. You felt relaxed and in control?”

  More like really determined.

  I can’t miss her subtle shift in subject. I have to give Harlow credit; she’s good.

  “Enough to keep the conversation flowing,” I remark. “It helped that your brothers weren’t terrible to me.”

  “Since we’re talking about Maxon and Griff, you should take that as a gift.”

  I am. But something else they said stuck out, something that’s been playing over and over in my head. Once we figured out this love thing is real… Why would they think it wasn’t? Okay, so their parents have a shitty, dysfunctional relationship that’s ending but that can’t be the whole story.

  “How do you feel about your parents divorcing?”

  “It’s about time. They’ve separated a few times over the years, and I hoped they’d put everyone out of their misery, but then my mom would always run out of money and come crawling home.”

  “And your dad took her back in?”

  “Totally. He relished those days. He rubbed her nose in the fact that he had the power. He enjoyed using it against her for weeks, sometimes months.” She clasps her hands in her lap, fidgeting.

  I’m poking at the edges of her comfort zone again. “Do you think they ever loved each other?”

  She scoffs cynically. “I don’t think they believe in love.”

  That would explain a lot. “Do you?”

  Instead of a flippant reply, Harlow takes her time answering. “I think it exists. I mean, I look at my brothers. I would never have thought they’d meet women who could make them better men and completely change their hearts. It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. But they made it work, and the only reason I can imagine either of them conquered their fears and got over their shit was because they fell in love. The kind that doesn’t end. The kind worth fighting for. I’m really happy for them.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” She laughs. “I’m not wired for love, Weston. My heart doesn’t work that way.”

  But she wants a baby because she wants someone to love? I’m guessing she doesn’t see the fallacy of her argument, and I’m not going to tango with her stubborn will now to point it out. My guess is she’s never experienced romantic love and after watching her parents tear each other up, she’s afraid of it. Simon Butler did zero to help the cause.r />
  I do a gut check, ask myself if I should tackle Harlow, the emotional Mt. Everest. But I’m already sure that walking away isn’t an option. This woman is under my skin. If we’re skirting the issue of love after less than a week together, I doubt we can spend the whole summer wrapped around each other without the subject coming up again. Already, I want more from her than just a good time.

  Yeah, that’s a new one for me, too. But my instinct tells me I’m in the right place with the right person. Even Trace and Makuahine like Harlow. Maybe Fate dropped her in my lap. I don’t know, but I’ve made a lot of decisions in life by listening to my gut. It’s always served me well, and I see no reason to change now.

  “Hmm,” I answer noncommittally.

  “What does that mean? Are you saying your heart does?” Her tone is skeptical. “If it did, you’d already be madly in love and married to your soul mate.”

  She sounds vindicated, as if her argument proves something to me about myself.

  “I was married to my career for a dozen years. A pro athlete’s life isn’t an easy one. We’re more than compensated for that, but I didn’t want to drag a wife and kids through my absence half the year, the press and the injuries, the uprooting every time I might have been traded to another team. Now?” I shrug. “I want a personal life. I want something meaningful.”

  “Well, good luck with that.” Harlow’s cynical tone tells me she doesn’t like the idea of me in love with another woman.

  It’s not much but she has some feelings for me. But I’m greedy; I want more.

  When we make it home, she dumps her purse on the bar in the kitchen, then takes her phone and heads upstairs without a word. She’s perturbed and preoccupied. Yeah, I’m getting better at reading her moods. The fact she hasn’t mentioned sex tells me I’m making her think, maybe even making her feel. She doesn’t want me close while she’s feeling vulnerable.

  Too bad.

  After climbing the stairs to my bedroom, I strip out of every stitch I’m wearing, then stroll down the hall just in time to see her come out of the bathroom with a fresh face and an oversized T-shirt that says GIRLS DO SHIT BETTER.

  When she sees me, her eyes go wide. “What are you doing?”

  “Coming to see you.”

  “You’ve seen me.” She gestures to her messy bun and her makeshift nightgown. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  “Take your shirt off.”

  Harlow sighs. “I’m tired. We’ll fuck tomorrow.”

  I don’t want her against her will, but I think she’s hungry for me. She’s eyeing me like I’m a piece of chocolate cake and she’s been on a long, strict diet.

  “All right. I’ll just be in the shower masturbating to thoughts of you. If you change your mind…”

  She gapes at me with wide eyes.

  It’s a mic drop moment, so I turn and pad down the hall—bare ass and all—to my bathroom and turn on the shower. I can’t guarantee that my taunt will bring her running, but I have high hopes.

  I’ve barely stepped in the shower, soaped up my hands, and started stroking myself with a long groan when she appears in the doorway, looking breathless. She stares at me through the floor-to-ceiling glass. It’s fogged up but not so much that she can’t see my hand working and my dick responding.

  For a long, silent moment she says nothing, does nothing. Just stares.

  I can’t let that stand. Time to put on a show.

  With my other hand, I soap up my chest and trail my fingertips down my ridged abs, then lower. Finally I cup my heavy testicles and throw my head back with a growl of need. Then I start chanting her name.

  “Harlow, baby. Ah…yeah. That’s it. Fucking stroke me. I’m so hard for you.”

  When I risk a glance at her, I see she’s stepped closer. She’s flushing. Her chest works up and down with choppy breaths.

  I smile and I look right into her eyes. “When I get inside you, I’m going to fuck you so slow and hard, baby. Your toes are going to curl and you’re going to scream your throat raw as we come together. Then I’ll do it all over again.”

  At her sides, her fists clench. She presses her lips together and grinds her jaw as if she’s trying beyond hard to resist.

  “This doesn’t mean anything,” she vows as she yanks the shirt over her head and stomps to the shower door.

  She enters the stall as a cloud of steam exits. I take her by the shoulders and drag her under the spray, fist in her hair, and bring her lips to mine. It’s all I can do not to inhale her with my kiss.

  When I push my tongue deep into her mouth, she stiffens, her palms flattening on my shoulders as if she can’t decide whether to push me away or drag me closer. She can’t control me—or the passion burning between us. It scares her. I feel it. But I’m not letting her go.

  I change tactics, soften my grip on her tresses, lean back against the glass, and ease my lips away from hers until they meet hers with the merest brush.

  Suddenly, she curls her fingers around my biceps and presses her curves against me like she can’t resist.

  Score.

  Without warning, I turn her in my arms, plastering her back to my front. My aching cock settles in the valley of her ass, driving me absolutely insane. But I fight to keep my head in the game, cradling her breasts with both hands, dragging my lips over her shoulder, up her neck, settling against the delicate shell of her ear.

  “Harlow, baby.” I toy with her nipples, pinch them gently, flick them with my thumbs, gratified when her breath catches and she rests her head on my shoulder, arching her backside against my cock.

  “Yes, Noah…”

  It’s a breathless plea that fires my blood. I slide one hand from her luscious breast to her flat belly, then down to her feminine heat. She’s hot. She’s wet—and not just from the shower spray. In fact, she’s soaked and slick and ready.

  I rub her clit slowly in dragging circles that I already know send her into a mindless frenzy and get her there fast. I press the other palm to the small of her back and urge her forward. Harlow doesn’t resist. Obediently, she bends at the waist and braces her hands on the glass in front of us. Then I spread her feet apart, nudging them wide with my own. She rushes to cooperate.

  Seconds later, I’m spreading her folds open with my fingers and tunneling inside her with a long curse of pleasure ripping from my chest. “Fuck.”

  Harlow arches and looks back at me, her eyes dilated, her cheeks beyond rosy. “More…”

  I get a grip on my self-control, then twine my fist in her long, wet tresses, keeping her face twisted so she can watch me as I fuck her. “I’m going to give it to you, baby. Because no matter what you think, this does mean something.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  “But it does. I know it. And you know it.” I withdraw, then plunge in again, gripping the tile with my toes so I don’t keel over in bliss. “Who are you lying to?”

  Harlow starts to buck like a horse that hasn’t been broken to a saddle. “You said it was sex. You said one day at a time.”

  “I did. But it’s days later, and now this is more than just sex. I’m going to stay right here, so hard inside you, until you admit it.”

  She starts writhing, but I can’t quite tell whether she’s fighting me…or moving with me. “Fuck you.”

  “No, baby. That’s my point. I’m going to do more than fuck you. Way more. I’m going to make love to you. I’m going to get down to your soul and fill you up.”

  Before she has a chance to object in earnest—and she will—I withdraw so slowly she can’t help but whimper. Then I slide back in as if I have all damn day to fill her up—all while leaning over her back and circling her clit with my fingers.

  “Feel me?”

  Her breath is a harsh din above the pounding spray of the shower, but she doesn’t reply. Instead, she merely sways with me, trying to speed up my thrusts.

  “Do you feel me?” I repeat, my voice low and harsh. I don’t know where this is coming f
rom except a need to make her acknowledge that we’re doing more together than scratching a mutual itch.

  Harlow tenses, her fingers clawing at the glass as she tries to breathe past the pleasure. I know that’s what she’s doing. She’s trying to hang on to her control. Trying not to admit that the love we’re making is getting to her, too.

  I stop everything—the slow grind of my deep plunge into her, the rhythmic torture of my fingers where she needs it most. I clench my jaw and grip her hips to absorb the punch of need that threatens to steal my breath. Denying her is killing me, but if I give her what she’s aching for, Harlow will assume she has me where she wants me and won’t think about this or us beyond the moment.

  Her high whimper becomes a sharp cry of need as the lack of sensation hits her. “Noah…don’t.”

  I’m not negotiating. “Do. You. Feel. Me?”

  Breaths saw from her chest one after the other as she scratches at the shower glass again. “Yes. Damn you!”

  It’s a very reluctant admission, but I’ll take it. “Good, this is me deep inside you, joining more than our bodies. Sharing more than fucking pleasure. I won’t make you acknowledge that today, but I want you to hear it. I want that floating through your head as I send you crashing into orgasm. Afterward, I’m going to climb in bed beside you again. I’m going to sleep next to you. And I want to wake up beside you. No more crawling away in the middle of the night to sleep on the sofa down the hall.”

  “You snore.”

  “You hog the covers, and I don’t care. I still enjoy curling up next to you.”

  “I don’t sleep with anyone.”

  “Now you do.”

  “You’re going to force me?”

  I ease almost completely out of her body, making sure she feels every scrape of my shaft across her nerve endings, then give her nearly bursting clit a long swipe. “Persuade. You’re always welcome to say no. Doesn’t mean I won’t try to use every way I know how to make you change your mind.”

  “What the fuck do you want from me?” Her angry words come out like a cry.

  “I don’t want anything from you. I simply want all of you.”