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Murmured words fill the room, the running water of the sink the only other sound.
Now.
I want you.
Yes.
I need this.
Oh God.
Right there.
Fuck.
Harder.

He pulls me into him. His hands slide under my tank and brand themselves to my back as he picks me up a bit to adjust the angle. And just that tiny change—my weight the determining factor for the depths he can reach—catapults the sensations he's drawing out of me from borderline heaven to full-blown ecstasy.

His name on my lips. His dick swelling inside me. The need to lose myself in something other than what happened tonight. His hushed pants in my ear as he works our bodies into that point of no return.

When it hits—first me and then him shortly thereafter—there's no scream into the room, no harsh grunt to let the other person know one of us has come. Instead there is a tensing of bodies, an honest connection of our eyes, and the sound of Zander saying my name in the softest of groans. It's a quiet acknowledgment that the moment held as much for him as it did for me.

I can see the flash of panic in his eyes right afterward. Feel it in the sudden tensing of his hands.

And I'm not sure what prompts me, but right when he begins to pull out and break our connection, I wrap my
arms around him, bury my face under the curve of his neck, and hold on. Understandably, his body jerks in response.

“Just . . . I just need a minute,” I murmur against the warmth of his skin.

Being the great guy he is, he pulls me tighter against him and kisses the crown of my head without a single word.

And when I realize that I just crossed another probable boundary of some sort, a part of me is brutally embarrassed at my sudden neediness. So much that I don't want to let go so I have to actually meet his eyes. But the other part of me breathes him in and realizes it's his warmth I'm craving now. My life has been so filled with coldness and cruelty, Zander's basic show of warmth and compassion is something I cling to.

“Sorry,” I sniff after a bit as I pull back from him, gaze angled down, and teeth biting my bottom lip as awkwardness sets in. “Just a lot to handle today. I needed a minute.” I try to save face, not feeling very certain that I did.

“I understand,” he says as he slips out of me, both of us unsure what to do.

Yes, our lust is undeniable, considering we just screwed like rabid rabbits against the kitchen counter, but it's that something else—that almost palpable shift between us—that's causing this sudden uneasiness.

“I'm . . . I'm gonna go clean up.”

I nod my head, not trusting myself to speak, since the urge to cry returns, tears stinging like a bitch as I try to hold them back. The problem is I'm not sure why I feel like crying. Is it everything with my father? Is it the fact that Zander stood up for me? Or is it Zander in general? I know I can't have him and yet increasingly I want him in my life regardless.

I'm left sitting on the counter, pajama pants hanging off one foot, to ponder the answer as the pipes creak when Zander turns on the shower.

And I still haven't figured out the answer over an hour later as I lie in the darkness of my bedroom, surrounded solely by the warmth of my comforter. Too chickenshit to
face Zander after his shower because I'm overwhelmed by this feeling that I need to explain myself, apologize—I don't know what—about my sudden moment where I needed more from him than just friends with benefits.

Maybe I just needed the friend part.

Ha. But the benefits part was pretty damn good too.

And therein lies the crux of the problem. I want more already when I know that's not an option with him.

His movements around the house carry through the two inches of space where my bedroom door is cracked open. I purposely left it ajar, not wanting to feel cut off from him after everything that happened between us today. My ears trace his footsteps down the hall and into his bedroom. More footsteps, then they hesitate this time, and I swear he stops right outside my bedroom door. But just as I convince myself I'm right, the steps retreat down the hall toward the kitchen. There's the rattle of the rest of the dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. The telltale sound of his MacBook turning on. His exhalation that's loud enough to travel into my bedroom.

There's a comfort to the sounds, to not being alone, and I hate that as much as I don't want to face him, I also want to go out into the family room, sink down on the couch, and just watch him do whatever he does on his laptop.

It's only ten o'clock. I'm tired but can't sleep. There's some laundry to fold. I'm still hungry. I run the list of reasons through my mind over any excuse why I should get up, but when I hear his voice, I freeze.

“Hey, man, I know. . . . I know. . . . I've missed you too.” There's so much affection in his tone I can hear it all the way down the hall. There's a pause while the other person speaks. “I'm glad to hear that. I'm proud of you. Is Mom there?”

I sit up in bed in reflex. Surprised. Intrigued. Curious. He's calling home. To his mother. To his real life.

The one without me in it.

The notion stings, but I'm so transfixed by the fact that he's calling home for the first time that it overrides the hurt.

“Rylee.” His voice is cautious and solemn. “It's good
to hear your voice too. . . . I just wanted to call to let you know that I'm all right. I'm doing well actually.” He laughs in a way that sounds like it's hard for him to believe his own words. “I know you deserve answers, apologies, a whole shitload of things. . . . I'm still working through some stuff, trying to find my way, but I
am
finding it. . . .” He murmurs in agreement to something she says. “I called because—I know, I know.” His voice is sympathetic and the simple mix of sounds proves to me that whatever happened, whatever crappy things he says he did, he at least feels sorry over his actions. And that says a lot to me about the measure of the man.

“I'm sorry I can't give you a time frame. . . . I know the season is almost— Yes, I know, but I screwed so much up that I—” His answering sigh is audible as she cuts him off. I hate that as much as I want him to go put things right with his family, I'm also selfishly happy that he didn't put a finite limit on his time left in PineRidge. “I know you're not pushing, Ry, I . . . yeah, I get it. . . . I wasn't going to call. Not until I had my head straight, but something happened tonight that put things in perspective. Made me realize how much you two have always stood behind me, and so I wanted you to hear my voice, because I know how much you worry.” His laugh again. A little more relaxed this time.

And with the sound of it, a picture starts to emerge for me. The angry hammering. His need for the physical release—in the work on the deck and in the unapologetic, no-holds-barred sex in the kitchen.

I smile softly to myself, thinking about the differences between last night and tonight. How last night I was seduced, pleasured, placed on a pedestal that left me feeling swoony compared with tonight's bruising pace that left me feeling recklessly desired and utterly exhilarated.

The thoughts circle in my mind as I focus back on the silence in the kitchen, waiting for him to speak again.

“No. I can't.” The distress is back in his voice. “I have . . . shit, I don't have a reason why, other than I made promises I need to keep before I talk to him. . . . Yep. Uh-huh. I've gotta go, but . . . I just needed to call.” He
says something else I can't hear, but it's obvious to me by his sudden backpedaling and defensive tone she asked if he wanted to speak with Colton. “I love you too. Bye.”

Silence descends on the house once again until I hear the creak of the floor in a pattern that sounds like he's pacing.

As I sink back into my bed, guilt over eavesdropping on his private conversation ties my hands from comforting him. My mind replays his comments, homing in on the notion that his meeting with my father tonight triggered something in him. Did he see how callous and cruel my father was and realize that his family isn't half as bad as he thought when he left?

No, he already admitted he screwed up and hurt people. But maybe tonight just reinforced that for him.

The knock on my door startles me.

“You awake?”

“Hmm?” I murmur, trying not to sound obvious that I'm in here concerned for him.

The door creaks open farther, but the light from the hall is off and so I'm left with his shadowed figure in the darkened doorway. He stands there for a moment, and somehow I can sense his need to talk across the distance.

“Can I come in?” His voice is quiet but gruff.

“Yes.”

He crosses the few feet in silence and the mattress dips as he sits on the edge. But he doesn't stop there. He surprises the hell out of me when, without another word, he pulls back the covers and slides into the bed beside me. Strong hands reach out and pull me firmly against him, my back to his front, before he wraps his arms tight around me.

I'm shocked, surprised, and every other adjective there is to describe being thrown for a loop from his actions—and yet I try not to let my body relay that to him.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his chin moving against my shoulder where it rests and the heat of his breath on my ears.

Coherent thoughts are hard to come by, so I do the best I can with a murmur of agreement.

“I just need a minute,” he whispers my own words from earlier back to me.

“Okay.” I sink against the firmness of his body, that warmth I craved earlier seeking me out this time. I can all but hear his mind turning next to me. His silence more powerful than a scream.

I know we both want to say more, but instead we let the magnitude of the moment—the unspoken admission that he needs me—eat us whole. Devour our insecurities. Gnaw at our doubt. Consume us with emotion. Relish in the connection. Create potential. For what? I can only hope we're moving toward something.

After a bit of time, my nerves feeling more alive than ever from the body-to-body connection and my mind overthinking the situation, I realize how much he is missing out in his life by being here: his family, his passion, his job. I hate the thought as soon as it fleets through my mind, but I still can't deny that the quicker he confronts his past, the sooner he can decide when he wants to return to that normalcy. And while that means I'll be here alone again, I can't hold him tight for my own selfish reasons.

But oh, how I'd like to.

I break the silence. “If you want me to help you go through the box, I will.”

I can hear immediate rejection of the idea in the subtle hitch of his breath. But he doesn't speak, just pulls me in a little tighter, giving the idea time to settle.

“I think I'd like that. . . . Thank you,” he murmurs to my surprise when I thought he wouldn't respond. “I can't promise you I'm not going to be a moody jerk over it, Getty, and I'd like to think I should do it myself . . . because, you know, boundaries.” I feel his shoulders shrug and the reverberation of his soft chuckle against my back makes me smile.

“Boundaries, huh? How're they working out for you right now?”

His laugh grows louder and joins mine. It's a comforting sound in the quiet of the room, but he doesn't answer the question. I don't know what I expected, but this wasn't it: Zander curled up behind me, his breath evening out, and his muscles falling lax.

Seconds turn to minutes and minutes to an hour as we
lie in a tangled mass of arms and legs, him asleep and me awake, while I wonder what just happened. We've created a day-to-day routine, and after tonight, we've knowingly added our pasts to the equation.

Thoughts, hints of more, flicker and fade. My pulse accelerates. My mind tells me to shut down. To fall asleep. To stop thinking how nice this feels.

But it proves impossible. So the digital clock on my nightstand shows the passage of time, when I just want to stay right here in this moment.

W
ith a flick of the power switch, the table saw falls silent. After I gather the freshly cut wood and shake the sawdust from my hair, I glance up and my eyes fall on the lone figure on the beach beyond.

Getty.
Her brown hair is pulled up in a loose bun and her feet are bare. She's enjoying the warmth of the sun with her face angled up to the sky, and she's holding a bag of shells I've been watching her aimlessly collect in one hand.

And that's the problem—how much I've been watching her. How much I've been reliving that unexpected, purge-your-emotions, use-each-other sex we had in the kitchen. Then immediately thinking about the way she bounced back after the cruel shit her father said to her without shedding a tear. Who says that kind of unbelievable crap to their kid? I realize that I'm starting to care about her in other aspects beyond sex.

But fuck, how can I not? I'm not that much of a prick. To think she lived in that life for twenty-five years before finding the courage to escape. To make a life on her own terms.

To be messy and unorganized.

Talk about being brave. Strong. Tough. And yet I don't think anyone knows the half of it, including me.

And what kind of shitbag is this Ethan prick? To go right along with her father's plan? Treating her as less than worthy . . . although I have a feeling his treatment of her was a whole lot worse than I'm allowing myself to think about. My blood boils. Distant memories of my own mom and dad return and I wonder just how bad it was for Getty.

My eyes veer back to her. To where she's bent over petting a jogger's dog. I didn't know she liked dogs. In fact there's a lot I don't know about her and suddenly the idea of finding out more is very appealing.

Jesus, Donavan. Quit thinking about her.
Or how good she smells. Or how goddamn warm her body was against mine all night. Or how fucking great the sex was last night when it was a little rougher. And oh, how I'd like to show her just how fun rough sex can be. Or that little sound she made when she grabbed me tight and didn't let go.

Any more
or
s and you're gonna need a damn boat to use them.

My laugh rings out. I'm fucking losing it.
In more ways than one.
I lift my hat and run my hand through my hair as she bends over to pick up something from the sand. And I hate that she offered to help me go through the box.

Let someone in instead of shutting everyone out.

Colton's words echo through my head. Cause pangs of guilt that I couldn't let it be him. Or Rylee. Or anyone else close to me for that matter.

But last night . . . fuck, last night watching Getty's piece-of-shit father treat her like she was his pawn—it not only pissed me off, but made me step back and realize how goddamn lucky I was. I was so angry at myself for not seeing it sooner, at Damon for not giving that to Getty, at the whole fucking world, that I just needed a minute. Some time on the deck with a hammer in my hand to work through my thoughts, my aggression, because I have a feeling Getty's had enough taken out on her over the years that she didn't need any more from me.

And what did I get in return? Her taking the initiative. Her reaching out to me when she probably felt so exposed after what I saw at the restaurant. How she needed me:
for sex. To work out the emotional overload. To just be held.

And of course, I'm the asshole. The one running away from his family because they care about me, when she'd probably give anything to have what I have. A loud, interfering, patient, meddling, intrusive, chaotic family that lays down the law only because they love me, not because they want something from me.

Talking to Rylee and my little brother Ace last night only solidified that for me. Reinforced that regardless of the bullshit I pulled and the hurt I caused, they still missed me and wanted me back home. Only wanted the best for me. Even after the stunts I pulled, acting like a goddamn prick so lost in myself that I couldn't see the forest for the trees. Couldn't ask for help, an ear to listen, an explanation to dispel my assumptions—anything—because it was so much easier to feel the rage than accept the vulnerability that came with it.

For a man, showing weakness, letting people see the one thing that will instantly knock him to his knees when he's supposed to be standing tall on his feet, isn't an easy thing for him to do voluntarily. Myself included.

And yet why the fuck am I willing to let Getty see what my past holds when I wouldn't let my own parents know about it?

The thought lingers, feeds my train of thought, creates ideas that I shouldn't even be entertaining. Like the type that made me slide into her bed last night and pull her against me simply because she understands without me having to say a single damn word.

The two-by-fours in my hand begin to get heavy. A reminder of what I should be doing—finishing the damn deck instead of thinking about
her
. Paring down the to-do list.
Not Getty.
Fulfilling my promise to Smitty, to Colton, to my fans, instead of sitting here with scattered thoughts.
Not knee-high socks.
Overthinking shit that should be simple.
Not a certain mini-blind-wand-wielding female.
I miss home but at the same time I have a perfectly good reason here as to why I'm not headed there just yet.

And all points lead to
Getty Caster
.

The woman I can't get out of my damn head.

Collector of seashells.

A breaker of boundaries.

Painter of stormy seas and broken sunsets.

And one I sure as hell like having in my bed.

Or hers.