Only You

by Addison Fox

  The taste of him was intoxicating and, she abstractly acknowledged to herself, so unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Sex with Fender was elemental and sensual and full of things she’d never noticed before. Scents and textures she’d never taken in during prior experiences, all of which seemed to make the moments more intimate.

  More intense.

  More perfect.

  Just . . . more.

  Desperate for more, she drifted even lower, taking him into her mouth. His reaction was immediate, his hard groan matched the instant tightening of his muscles, and Harlow knew she’d scored a victory when her name drifted into the room on a breathless moan.

  The quiet hours she’d spent that day—all of which had given her plenty of time to think—seemed to coalesce in that moment. The joy of being together. The beauty of what it meant to give another pleasure. The sheer rightness of the two of them reinforced all the reason she hadn’t left.

  Determination to push those feelings into action filled her, and she focused on Fender. With her tongue, she traced the underside of his erection, pleased when the firm motion elicited the exact response she’d hoped. He pressed harder against her lips, lost to the pleasure and she took him deeper, adding the pressure of her fingers at the base of his cock to intensify the sensation.

  When a hard moan broke from his lips she knew she’d hit her mark.

  And when the hands that had lain gently against her head shifted, gripping her arms to pull her up, she knew he was as needy as she. “Harlow.”

  She sensed his increasing impatience and wanted to drive him farther—harder—but lifted her head. “I don’t think we’re finished yet.”

  “Then you’re not paying very good attention.”

  He gritted his teeth as she used her body like one long caress, pressing herself against him, skin to skin, as she slid up to settle against his chest. “You were saying?”

  “You see determined to make a point.”

  “Which is?” She pressed a kiss to his neck, flicking her tongue against his pulse.

  “That I really was an unmitigated ass for staying away all afternoon.”

  She lifted up, planting her hands on either side of his body before seating herself intimately atop him. “If the shoe fits.”

  “I think a few other things fit much better.” A frown marred his features. “Which reminds me—”

  She stopped him, pressing a finger against his lips before slipping her free hand under the pillow for the condoms she’d hidden there earlier, in a moment of supreme hope. In between snagging that cell signal for the bus schedule and eyeing her recently unpacked suitcase.

  “Looking for one of these?” she said.

  Those lush, green eyes widened, his voice was reverent when he finally spoke. “You’re not real.”

  “I’m very real. And I’m about to show you just how real I am.”

  “No.” Fender lifted his hands to her face, pulling her gently down toward him. “You’re not. But that’s not going to stop me from being deeply grateful that you’re here. And that you’ve put up with me.”

  He kissed her again, everything neither of them was able to say swirling in the moment with them. The teasing and tempting at an end, Harlow felt herself falling. Falling deeper for this amazing man who had no idea how to let himself go.

  Falling further in love.

  He took the condom from her, ripping open the packet and slipping on the protection. And then, his hands on her hips, he guided her over his body, moving inside of her with infinite strength and endless gentleness. The sensuality that had driven their lovemaking shifted, growing more urgent. More needy. The sensual pleasure of touch and taste shifted to the harder driving needs of sexual release.

  And as she rose up over him, their bodies matched in a rhythm that made sense only to them, Harlow let the last embers of her earlier anger go. They had no place between them.

  No place in the moment.

  As the last ashes faded away, she focused on the pleasure rising between them. A fire of a different sort. One that demanded they give their all.

  She rode his body, driving her own onward and upward, pleasure coalescing in every nerve ending. In everything she was.

  When her release finally broke over her, Fender’s hoarse shout matched her own more breathless moan. And as they rode out the wave together, Harlow knew she’d been forever changed.

  He’d marked her as his own, just as she’d marked him.

  Indelibly.

  Irrevocably.

  Impossibly.

  * * *

  “Why were you laughing before?”

  Fender knew the question would come—knew he was on the hook for an answer—but he was hesitant to break the light cocoon that had enveloped them for the past half hour. Neither of them had slept, but they’d fallen into those quiet moments where they sort of floated. “Can I tell you later?”

  “That good?” She lifted her head from where it lay against his chest. “You’re seriously going to keep me in suspense?”

  “It’s not what you expect.”

  “Sheesh, you know how to draw out a moment.”

  He grinned at that. “You weren’t complaining before.”

  A decidedly smug smile greeted him in return. “Neither were you.”

  “Nope. Not one bit.”

  “Come on, Fender,” she pressed him. “I’d like to know.”

  “It’s because you feel so good. Being with you. Looking at you. Thinking about you. All of you just feels so damn good.” He laid a hand over hers. “And I’m fucked.”

  “What?”

  She lifted her head higher, and he sensed she was going to move, so he tightened his hold. “I told you it didn’t make any sense. So hear me out, will you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Women like you don’t go out with guys like me.” A determined frown erased her smile, and he pressed on before she could say anything. “You want to hear this or not?”

  She nodded and, her voice prim, said, “Yes, I do.”

  “Nothing about us makes sense, and you know that.”

  “This part makes a hell of a lot of sense to me.”

  “And while I’d like nothing more than to throw a blanket over both our heads and stay here wasting away against that gorgeous body of yours, that’s not real life.”

  “No.”

  “So you do see what I’m saying? You and I don’t fit in real life.”

  “How can we fit in some places and not others?”

  How did he make her see reason? That this had all gone way too fast and way too far, and all the reasons they didn’t belong together. “I’m the sort of guy you fuck. You enjoy me for a while and move on. Go back and find yourself a nice society guy to have a family with.”

  Whatever reaction he’d expected—and to be fair, he wasn’t expecting anything good—her wide eyes and deep, belly laughs wasn’t it. He’d just insulted her in the worst of ways, and she was laughing? His own bout of the jollies suddenly leaped up and smacked him in the face, and he didn’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “Yo . . . you.” She only laughed harder before rolling over to hug her stomach.

  “This is not funny.”

  If he’d thought she was putting him on or trying to give him a taste of his own medicine, he knew he was wrong when he saw the tears rolling down her face.

  “This really isn’t funny.”

  “But it so is.”

  She got up then, rolling off the bed to stand a few feet away. Laughter still shook her shoulders, but she managed to stand to her full height and planted her hands in fists at her waist. Dropping her voice, she mugged a serious face. “I’m the sort of guy you fuck, sweetheart. Take your pleasure and hit the road.”

  She barely got through the last word before she convulsed once more in a heap of giggles. Fender wanted to be mad, but a creeping sense of embarrassment whispered up his neck, heating his skin as
it continued to crawl toward his face.

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Oh yes it is.” She waved a hand, pasting on that dopey deep voice even as a huge grin still split her face. “Now you go on, darlin’ and find yourself a man of your station.”

  “You’re just being stupid.”

  “Me?” She moved toward the bed and delivered a solid smack to his upper arm. “You’re the one who started it. What the hell are you, some gigolo I’m using to service myself?” She bent even closer and pressed her lips to his ear. “News flash, cowboy. I have hands for that.”

  A white-hot image of her taking pleasure at her own hands flashed through his mind, obliterating whatever it was he was going to say. Add that to his already half-assed argument, and he felt even dumber than she’d already suggested. “I’m just saying that we’re different.”

  “Oh Fender.” The laughter faded, but the good humor still rode her gaze as she climbed onto the bed. “We’re just two people. I don’t care where you grew up or what you do for a living or that you like cars. And running a gallery or living on Fifth Avenue doesn’t somehow mean my life is mapped out down one specific path.”

  “You can’t be that naive.”

  “Sure I can. I’ve spent my life watching my mother, and I know damn well thinking there’s only one path for my life is the surest way to disappointment. She believed life was meant to be some rarefied adventure, living above everyone.”

  Fender thought about the cold woman who’d made his mother’s life hell this past summer. Prim and snotty, Gretchen Reynolds had a supreme vision of her place in the world. “Seems she’s done a pretty fine job of it.”

  “Hardly.”

  “We’re talking about the same person?”

  “Yes, we are. She’s cold and unbearably fragile, and she didn’t end up any more rarefied than anyone else. A fancy penthouse apartment and a big bank account didn’t shield her from life. Nor do those things make her a better human.”

  “She makes you angry.”

  “Angry, yes. But more than that, I see what she’s missing out on, and that upsets me. She’s my mother, and I love her. And somewhere inside, there’s a woman who deserves to be loved for her whole self. But she’s pushed the entire world away from her to live in this cocoon of her own making.”

  He reached for her hand. “Because of your father?”

  “Maybe. At first. But he’s been gone a long time, and she’s gotten worse, which means it’s her. Her inability to move on and believe she deserves something more sits on her.”

  Fender thought about his mother and her lack of a personal relationship. For a long time he’d chalked it up to her being busy and caring for her family, but over the past few months, he’d begun to question that. The eyes of a child had faded to that of an adult, and the fact that his mother was spending her days alone bothered him.

  He’d also seen her connection with their neighbor, Dave Maxwell. He’d wondered about it from time to time, but began wondering about it more when Dave quit coming to brunch. Something had dulled in his mother’s eyes since Dave stopped coming, and he’d caught Emma and Daphne whispering about it one day after they’d all left brunch.

  Did his mother not believe she deserved something more? That a choice she’d made nearly a quarter century ago somehow had determined the rest of her life? She certainly had a full life, and he’d never put her in the same bitter category as Gretchen Reynolds, but she also had sacrificed a lot of her own personal happiness for her sons and their collective life in Brooklyn.

  “So if that all means I’m naïve, then I’ll take it.”

  Harlow’s words drew him back to the moment. “Laughing at me all the while.”

  “Only when you act like an ass.” She pressed a kiss to his lips. “Give me a few days. I’m sure I’ll take a turn, too.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because love makes asses of all of us.” She resettled herself against his side, curling close, and Fender wondered if she even knew what she said.

  Love.

  Did she love him, too?

  He wanted to ask, but he’d already delved into sensitive waters and he was loathe to rock the waves any further.

  In moments, she’d fallen asleep in his arms, her breathing evening out. They lay like that for a long time while he watched through the window as daylight faded.

  He knew that life existed outside the room, but he hadn’t been joking earlier. He’d have happily pulled the covers over their heads and stayed put for a good long while.

  Holding at bay life and the inevitable problems back in New York, which seemed like another world.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The roar of forty 850-horsepower engines rose up to engulf Harlow where she was seated on the infield. The sound was impressive, and she was grateful for the hearing protection Fender had pressed on her before he went off to meet up with the crew he worked with.

  They’d confirmed that he was free to enjoy the race, but both of them had been invited to spend some time in the pit. She’d encouraged him to go on, claiming that she was anxious to watch some of the race from their seats.

  Which was true.

  Even if she did still smart from their heated discussion on Friday evening.

  “Because love makes asses of all of us.”

  What had she been thinking? She’d basically confessed her feelings to him and, idiot that she was, hadn’t even really realized it at the time. It was only the day after, as they were having lunch, that she’d thought back through their conversation and realized what she’d said.

  Then it all came back to her, in a jumbled, ridiculous, garbled mess.

  The discussion of her mother. The weird and funny jaunt he made to martyr town, trying to convince her she needed to fall for someone else. Even the mind-bending sex had fallen to the wayside of her memories as she kept going over and over that conversation.

  “Because love makes asses of all of us.”

  What had she done? And why hadn’t he said anything to her?

  Probably because he’s trying to skate out of a response, quickly winged back through her thoughts every time she attempted to dissect their conversation. Which was disheartening, but the thought had kept her steady company since remembering their exchange.

  Harlow fought the urge to slap a hand over her forehead but reconsidered when her phone vibrated from the small purse that lay in her lap. Dragging it out, she saw a text from her mother.

  I haven’t heard from you all weekend.

  Harlow tapped back a reply, firm and to the point.

  I believe I mentioned I was headed out of town this weekend. I’ll call you when I get back in the city tomorrow.

  The small dots that indicated her mother was replying filled the bottom part of the screen before the phone vibrated again with the response.

  Are you with him?

  Him?

  Harlow shoved her phone back in her purse at the insult.

  Him?

  That was Gretchen’s full encapsulation of Harlow’s relationship with Fender. The most moving, powerful experience of her life had been reduced to something tawdry. Something beneath her mother’s consideration.

  Him.

  Anger, dark and violent, swirled beneath her skin. Had she really been blind to this?

  She’d allowed her mother her anger and her bitterness. She’d even defended and likely indulged her over the whole break-in of Landon’s business back in July, when she claimed that she didn’t mean it. When she insisted that she was still grieving, that she wasn’t fully aware of the consequences of her behavior.

  But she wasn’t.

  What had seemed right and respectful and necessary even, now just seemed like enabling.

  And her mother’s reaction to Fender felt like betrayal.

  The tap on her shoulder had her shifting her gaze, and she realized Fender had returned and stood above her. The ambient noise and his greeting were muffled by the hea
dphones, and she took them off, looking up at him.

  Fender stood beside his open seat, his hands full of food. “Hey. You okay?”

  Was she okay? She didn’t feel okay, nor did she feel very calm, but she wasn’t prepared to go down that path.

  Nor was she willing to tell him of the exchange with her mother, so she pasted on a warm smile and reached for the cardboard tray he held. “You’ve been busy. I thought you were going down to the pit.”

  “I did that, then realized I was the bottomless pit and made a quick pit stop before heading back.” He patted his stomach. “Pit stop. Get it?”

  The joke and his goofy expression weren’t lost on her. Nor was the happy, buoyant feeling that landed in her chest, chasing away the dour thoughts that lingered from her mother’s texts.

  “I hope you got mustard on those hot dogs.”

  He took his seat next to her and leaned close, making himself heard over the roar from the track. “Is the internal combustion engine a modern miracle?”

  “Good man.”

  “Hey,” he said as he reached for a hot dog. “Don’t let anyone tell you I don’t know how to feed my woman a classy meal.”

  His woman.

  Just a joke, she reminded herself as she studied his face. His focus had already shifted to a particularly exciting move on the track, but the words kept her company, doing battle with the mess that currently filled her head. She took a bite of her hot dog—the mustard was perfectly spread on the dog—and could only revert to her earlier thought.

  The one that stood out above all others.

  Love really did make asses of them all.

  * * *

  Louisa deadheaded a rose, her focus on the calm, steadying work. She’d had another breakfast the prior morning for the campaign and the usual brunch crowd that morning, but other than those two commitments, the weekend had been hers. She’d done her level best to go to ground, relaxing and trying to put all the conflicting thoughts out of her mind. The campaign. Fender’s father. Dave.