Unbreak My Hart (The Notorious Harts 4)

I shift my gaze over his shoulder, my lips a mutinous line in my face.

‘But you shouldn’t let that resentment stop you from getting to know them. They’re your family.’

I’m tempted to lash out at that, to deny it with everything I am, but I don’t particularly want to reveal the strength of my emotions so I keep my voice light. ‘The gospel according to Barrett?’

‘Just some free legal advice,’ he quips, his smile slow, lightening the tone of our conversation. ‘If you don’t want to talk about your brothers, we can talk about you instead.’

I balk at that. I told Barrett more about me this morning than I’ve shared with another soul, ever.

‘I think I’m all talked out.’

‘Fine. We’ll eat in silence and then find something else to do.’

My heart hammers against my ribs. Desire forms within my veins, running rampant and hot through my body. This—Barrett—is unusual. Different. Threatening—because I can sense him trying to unpick me, to understand me and I don’t want him to do that. I feel like I’m moving onto shaky ground. Every minute spent with him makes me uncertain and confused.

Except when we’re in bed.

Sleeping with him is everything I’m used to—it’s familiar and comforting and easy for me to control. It’s an exchange I understand, one with a predictable outcome. Whereas I find it hard to quantify our conversation, or to predict what his replies to my statements will be. He surprises me constantly.

That makes me uneasy.

‘It’s just dinner.’ He pulls away, straightening, but not before I catch the slight frown on his face. ‘I presume you use your table for eating as well?’

And, just like that, I’m reminded of the first night he came here, when we’d been together on my dinner table, and the flash of need is so intense it almost hurts.

‘From time to time.’ I watch as he places the paper bag and wine onto the kitchen bench.

‘Plates?’

I move towards him slowly, but with an unmistakable intention. My fingers find the edge of my shirt. I lift it up my sides, watching him as I do so. ‘Over there.’ I drop the shirt as I point away from him.

He doesn’t look for the plates. He stays where he

is, transfixed, watching me in a way that is a shot in the arm because it’s rich with desire, and desire I get. It relaxes me to feel this, to know he feels it too, to be able to distil this all back to sex.

‘Let’s eat later.’ Let’s talk never, I silently add, making that mental commitment to myself. I’m done with deep and meaningful.

For a second—the smallest second—I sense his hesitation and wonder at the root of it. He’s a guy, right? Driven by biological imperatives.

Yes.

He is.

A second later he makes a gruff noise and pulls me to him, his mouth on mine instantly demanding and reassuring, his tongue in my mouth twisting me in knots. It is a kiss of combat and surrender. Ancient needs thunder in my soul.

‘Fuck me,’ I groan, pushing up to sit on the edge of the kitchen bench, bringing him between my legs, forcing at his jeans until the button opens and I can shove them down his legs.

He steps out of his pants, his hands lifting my butt, pulling me to him, and he carries me with ease, his mouth never once leaving mine. ‘Bedroom?’ The word is pushed deep inside me by his artful tongue. I swallow it, groaning, ripping my head away for a second.

‘That way.’ I shove my arm in the direction of the hallway. At the first door we pass, I push it inwards. It’s a guest bedroom, not mine, and rarely used. I don’t have houseguests. But it will serve a purpose right now.

As will Barrett—and then I’ll get him to go away again. The certainty is reassuring. Once more, I feel like I’ve moved onto familiar ground and I like it here. I understand this.

Sex and go. A quickie. Why should anything else enter the equation between us?

‘Fuck me,’ I say again, but it’s not enough to be fucked by him. I want to torment him, to take all that I can from his body, to pleasure him and be pleasured by him until he can’t see straight.

He drops me onto the bed, his body chasing mine, his mouth seeking my nipples, dragging across me until I’m arching my back, each breast needing his attention simultaneously, making me wish there was another Barrett—or at least another of his mouths—nearby. His fingers, understanding, take over, plucking and rolling one nipple while his mouth enslaves the other, his tongue rolling and flicking, his teeth biting with just enough force to make my cries sharper. He kisses his way down my fevered body, pushing at my pants when he reaches my hips, his clever tongue teasing my sex so slowly that it’s completely insufficient and I groan with need, begging him, pleading with him.