Page 104 of Late Harvest

Bash waited a moment, glorying in the spent queen now limp in his arms, and brushed her cheek with a knuckle, drawing her gaze back to him. Their eyes locked as he pulled back and slammed into her…once…twice…again, his balls drawn tight, his cock pure steel. Every ounce of his awareness centered on the beautiful ache of imminent release. He ground into her, painting her walls with his cum as he rocked his hips against her.

Not breaking eye contact, or their more primal physical connection, he shifted to his side. Bash traced his fingertips along her cheek and jaw, his heart bursting with the force of emotion that should’ve been scary. But wasn’t.

He realized with a mixture of amazement and rightness that it was the feeling of his heart locking into place with its fated counterpart.

I love you, he mouthed, not wanting to break the sacred bubble of silence they’d created.

Arabella was motionless for a moment. Then a gorgeous smile spread across her sated face. I love you, too.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Why did my sister stare at the orange juice carton?

It said concentrate.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

Aten-year age gap could be an insurmountable boundary for sibling bonding. By the time Honor was born, Bash had been barreling toward puberty. Her health crisis, however, fostered a deep connection between them. There had been times, especially as they both hit the accelerator on their careers, that he and Honor would barely see each other once a year. But their connection never wavered. Whether it was texting frequently between projects or FaceTiming from various movie sets around the world, they treasured that contact and ensured it remained a necessary part of their lives.

Still, nothing beat quality, in-person time with his sister. Honor was the one person who understood everything about his world. They navigated the superficial nature of their chosen industry together, often guided back to reality through the deep love of their parents. Jock and Clem always managed to ensure their children knew they were adored, all while keeping their marriage at the center of their family—a tower of strength defying the shifting sands of a mercurial, inconstant world.

When Bash woke that Friday morning, alone in the bed still rumpled from him and Arabella declaring their love with their bodies and their loud, but unspoken words, he knew there was only one person to turn to for emotional support. Because he was deeply in love. And freaking the fuck out.

Sometimes, you just needed your sister.

He stopped by his favorite coffee shop, where he picked up a small latte for Honor—he knew she was only enjoying one cup daily, and he’d offered to grab that plus a chocolate croissant for each of them. He didn’t need those calories, but he’d work them off later. Brinder and Honor were building a state-of-the-art gym and Pilates studio on their spacious grounds. In the meantime, Brinder, his friend, Cole, and now Bash all still used the private gym at Brinder’s former condo.

“Hello, the house!” he called, entering using the code he’d memorized during his stay at his sister’s guest house next to the large pool they’d installed.

“In the breakfast room,” his sister’s disembodied voice answered from a speaker near his head.

He pressed a button. “I’ll grab a map and see if I can find my way through the palace,” he teased through the built-in mic, smirking at the image of Honor rolling her eyes at the other end.

Bash strolled into the sunny room, which was enclosed on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. Honor had designed it to be similar to her sanctuary at her home in Wales.

“Good morrow, dear sister.” Bash dropped a kiss on Honor’s head. Her hair was in a low, messy ponytail, little Jude nursing contentedly at her breast.

“Well met, dear brother,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Wherefore come you hither?”

Ok, he could acknowledge that the interactions among his immediate family of thespians probably seemed weird at first to outsiders. But he loved it. Wouldn’t change a thing.

Bash plopped into the ridiculously comfortable leather couch his sister and Brinder referred to as ‘Couchie’ for some odd but fitting reason. “Can’t a brother pop over and see his sister and his little nephew?”

“He could.” Honor arched a knowing brow. “But this particular brother carries with him the scent of pathetic desperation.”

Bash snarled teasingly. “Rude.”

“But am I wrong?” she asked superciliously.

“It’s not desperation, pathetic or otherwise, HonBon. It’s—I could use—I need—” he stammered, unsure how to frame the words despite every combination of them whirling through his brain since Chicane woke him with his morning zoomies and chattering.

“Do you think your uncle has lost his powers of articulate speech, Judie?” Honor murmured, popping the baby off her breast and tucking him against her chest, his legs scrunching adorably as she patted his back.

He glowered at her with no heat. “I came for advice, ok?”

“Would this have to do with a certain chief of orthopedics?”