Unbreak My Hart (The Notorious Harts 4)

‘You’re not alone any more,’ he tries again, and I laugh softly, a maniacal sort of noise, disbelief filling me.

‘I’m no more or less alone than I was a week ago. Some guy screwed my mom and I’m the result. That doesn’t make him my father and it sure as hell doesn’t make them my brothers.’

His frown pulls at something inside me, something I refuse to acknowledge.

‘You’re upset.’

I glare at him. ‘I’m surprised.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘Gee, thanks.’ And then, because I’m being unnecessarily rude to him, I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just—’

But he lifts a finger to my lips, moving a little closer. ‘Don’t apologise. You can say and do whatever you want right now and it won’t matter. I’m here for you. Grieve, shout, scream, cry—whatever you want.’

His words roll through me, his offer something I didn’t know I needed. I’m here for you. I don’t remember the last time anyone was ‘there’ for me. Except for shareholders, but that’s largely self-interest, and limited purely to a professional capacity. The truth is, I work hard. Ridiculously long hours, which leaves very little time to let anyone close enough for them to be ‘there’ for me. And that’s just the way I like it, I remind myself in the nick of time, right before I can let his statement make me feel gooey and warm.

I don’t do warm and gooey. I d

on’t do any of the things he’s suggested. I process things—all things—in one way, and always have. Right back to the night of my fifteenth birthday when I sneaked out of my foster parents’ home and went to a bar, found some guy to take my virginity and make me forget all about how damned alone I was.

‘You want to be “here” for me?’ I ask, taking another drink of whisky then leaning forward so I can put the glass on the coffee table in front of us. I turn to face him, my eyes scanning his features, dropping to his thick throat and the wisps of hair that appear above his shirt.

‘Yeah.’ A gravelly sound of agreement. I take his Scotch glass and partner it to mine then stand slowly, my hands reaching for my shirt in the same motion, fingers working the buttons until the fabric parts and I can shrug out of it.

‘Then fuck me.’

His eyes probe my face, trying to read me. How I hate that! I hate it because it speaks of things I refuse to hear, and because I think he’s probably really good at it, and I hate the idea of him understanding how vulnerable my past could—if I let it—make me.

I unhook my bra, then strip out of my jeans, my lace thong last of all. Naked, I straddle him, my eyes fierce when they meet his. ‘All I want right now is this.’ I roll my hips and feel his cock hardening between my legs.

‘Avery...’

‘Don’t.’ I shake my head, dropping my mouth, pulling his lower lip between my teeth. ‘Don’t ask me questions. Don’t tell me things. Not now. Just...fuck me. Hard.’

* * *

The moon bounces off the bay, a streak of white light that is somehow ethereal and beautiful, despite the fact it happens every night. The moonlight dances from the bay to the hotel, brushing Avery’s skin so she looks luminescent, glowing, like some kind of mermaid brought to live on land—no tail, but every ounce as magical and captivating. I lift a finger, running it over her shoulder.

Her eyes are heavy, her expression relaxed for the first time since I saw her at lunch time.

‘I’ll go soon,’ she murmurs, the words heavy.

‘Don’t.’ I move my hand lower, to the swell of her hip.

I feel her rejection of that, as though staying here the night will somehow mean something or commit her to something.

‘Not yet,’ I substitute, knowing—somehow—better than to appear to ask too much of her. ‘You haven’t eaten. Do you want dinner?’

Her eyes drift closed. ‘I’m not hungry.’ A moment later she’s asleep. I watch her for longer than I realise, each gentle breath in and out, the undulation of her breasts, the moon against her skin, the parting of her lips.

She was exhausted and I’m the opposite. Wired, and wide awake. I push the sheet back gently and move from the room, flicking on the kettle I always travel with when I’m in the States, staring out at the bay while the water boils. It’s after midnight, which means it’s too late to call Theo, who’s in Paris with Asha. Too early to call Holden and Cora in New York. But for Jagger, in Sydney, it’s the middle of the day. I stare at my phone for a long time, recognising my hesitation and wondering at it.

Because I slept with their half-sister?

Yeah. I don’t really want to go into that.

I should contact them though and tell them—something, an update of some kind. But what?