I nod because my throat is tight with both guilt and desire. He kisses me with a reverence that makes the back of my eyes sting, then pushes in, stretching me open inch by inch. I gasp at the momentary burn that morphs into pleasure as he fills me, and his answering groan sounds like it’s been ripped from somewhere deep inside him.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to mine. “I’ve got you.”
I exhale shakily and wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass. “I’ve got you right back, Barlowe.”
“For as long as you want me,” he agrees, then starts to move—long, deep strokes that feel like some kind of carnal promise. The angle shifts, and suddenly he hits a spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. He keeps changing the pace—slow and deep, then fast and shallow, then slow again—pushing me to the edge, but never letting me fall.
“Look at me,” he whispers. His gaze is fierce but also filled with tenderness. “I want to watch you come undone on my cock and feel you milk every drop out of me.”
His words are all I need to tumble over the edge of oblivion. I come again, raking my nails down his back hard enough to leave marks. He follows with a guttural curse, hips bucking wildly as he spills inside me, pulse after pulse, my name a ragged chant on his lips.
His weight is a delicious anchor as he collapses on top of me, then rolls us so I’m draped over his chest. One giant palm splays almost possessively over the curve of my ass, while his other hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together over his heart.
“Piper?” he murmurs into my hair.
“Mmm?”
“This doesn’t have to change anything.”
The words slice clean through the afterglow, and what a damnfool I am to think otherwise. I swallow hard, nodding against his chest even as my heart cracks open. “Of course not. I still hate you.”
He chuckles at the lie, then tightens his arm around me like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. A moment later, his breathing evens out, and I know he’s fast asleep.
I stare at the ceiling and try not to notice his hand resting innocently on my still-flat stomach, but the secret I’m keeping settles over me like a blanket.
Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow.
Tonight, I’m going to pretend Felix Barlowe’s arms are big enough to hold all my secrets and still want me anyway.
11
FELIX
When I wakeup the next morning, the bed beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Morning light filters through the edge of the curtain, pale gold banding across the dresser on the other side of the room. Except for the soft hum of the baby monitor, my room is quiet. Too quiet.
I barely have time to register Piper’s absence before a sound from down the hall makes my stomach tense. That’s definitely retching.
I’m out of bed before my brain fully processes what’s happening, grabbing shorts from the floor and yanking them on as I move. The noise is coming from Piper’s room, the one she didn’t sleep in last night but apparently retreated to at some point while I was dead to the world.
The bedroom door is cracked open, and I can hear her being violently sick in the adjoining bathroom.
“Piper?” I push the door open and find her hunched over the toilet, one hand braced on the seat, the other clutching the edge of the vanity.
She’s wearing one of my new Grizzlies T-shirts, her long legscurled under her. For a moment, my body—and heart, if I’m being honest—has a visceral reaction to seeing her in my shirt.Mine, the internal choir chants, like she belongs to me.
I tell the stupid chanters to shut the fuck up. Because it isn’t true, and this isn’t the time to go full-on caveman. Not when it’s clear she’s suffering, her normally creamy skin clammy and tinged green.
“Go away,” she manages weakly.
No fucking chance.
I cross the room and drop to my knees behind her. Smoothing away the strands of hair that have escaped her messy bun, I rest my other hand on her back.
“I’ve got you, Hart.”
“Felix, I’m serious. Leave.” Another wave hits her, and she curls forward with a miserable groan.
It makes my chest ache, and I stay right where I am, rubbing small circles on her back the way I do when Ellie’s upset, murmuring nonsense that I hope is soothing. When the wave finally passes, she flushes the toilet and slumps back against the wall with her eyes closed. I grab a washcloth from the rack, run it under cool water, and press it to her forehead.
