Page 22 of The Southern Thirst Trap

Water is going everywhere, sloshing over the sides of the tub with every fast pump of my hips, candles hissing out around us, smoke adding to the curling plumes of steam filling the bathroom around us. The storm outside matches our intensity in every way, flashes of lightning nearly constant, thunder shaking the very foundation of the villa and making my heart skip.

Her body feels custom-made for mine, every plush curve molding to my hard planes, her pussy taking my hard, deep thrusts as our groans and sounds become animalistic, primal. I’m out of my mind with the feel of her, but I’m lucid enough to want her to feel this good, to come apart around me and drive me further over the cliff of becoming completely lost to her. I slow enough to move the fingers of one hand to circle her clit, and the other hand up higher to her tits, playing with her straining nipples as I keep her pressed to me. I continue my driving assault into her cunt, feeling the trembling of her body, on edge. I pump my hips up hard, pull back, drive up harder.

“Zander!” Her choked gasp is my only warning. Her face lights up with the crack of lightning that burns outside the windows as her pussy clamps down on my cock, her orgasm detonates, and she shatters with the boom of thunder that follows, her internal walls spasming around me in the most explosive release she’s had yet. I fight the tight hold and force myself in again and again.

“You’re mine.” The guttural growl is a foreign sound to my own ears while I bury my cock in deep, pressing my hips tight to hers as my release follows shortly after while I clutch her against me. Our breathing stays ragged, harsh as the howling wind and cracking of the very sky over our heads that knows we just broke every rule there is.

I’m utterly, madly, stupidly in love with this woman.

And even as I’m still heady with relief in the post-orgasmic glow, I know I’ll have to cut out my bloody pulp of a heart when I walk away from her at the end of these two weeks. There’s no way I can realistically take whatever we are creating here in our little vacation bubble back into my life back home. No matter how deeply she is now embedded in my heart, or how entwined my fucking soul is with hers, my first focus will always be business.

There is no room for a beautiful, vivacious, and all-consuming woman like Harlowe in what is leftover after work wrings me dry with all I have vowed to give of myself to the mistress of industry. Harlowe deserves more than coming in second to that. She deserves more than I could ever fucking give her, even if, selfishly, right this moment, I want to keep her all for myself.

I know I will have to let her go, and I’ll have to crush her so resolutely there will be nothing left to come back to if I give in to my weakness.

twelve

Harlowe

“Putonaprettydress, do up your hair, and get yourself ready. I’m taking you out to the best restaurant in town. I know the chef. Her food is incredible.”

I smile as I let Knox into the house, his deep voice ringing through the open living room. Before he rang the bell, I was chopping vegetables for the dinner I invited him to. He likes to joke that eating in my kitchen is better than any restaurant he could take me to. I head back to the kitchen to finish my preparations.

“Knox!” Hendricks yells, jumping up from the Legos he was assembling on the floor. He runs and launches himself at Knox, who catches him under the arms and swings him up into the air.

“Hey, little man! Are you being good for your mama?” Knox walks to the couch and plops down with Hendricks in his arms and I watch as he interacts with my beautiful son. It turns out he’s great with kids. He comes from a big family and has twelve nieces and nephews.

Knox continues to surprise me the more I get to know him. I never expected to date an athlete, always assuming they were too focused on their sport, one-dimensional, or at worst, major players flaunting big-time contract money. Knox hasn’t been like that. He’s humble, focused but still present, and he’s been incredibly attentive. We haven’t been dating long, but I felt comfortable enough bringing him into Hendricks’s life after we went on a handful of perfectly fine dates and I felt safe enough with him, and my kid has preened under the attention of a strong male figure.

I bite my lip, feeling a little guilt for my role as a single parent, raising a little boy without a father around. I let my lip slide out of my teeth and scowl at the cutting board under my hands. It wasn’t my choice to do this alone. I never would have chosen to do this on my own. But I wasn't given the option from the very beginning, and there was no way in hell I would have begged for it from the man who cut off all contact with me immediately after unknowingly knocking me up. Well, for my son, I would have begged, if I had the chance, but I wasn’t even given one.

I knew without a doubt that Zander Olsen did not want to be a father. He was very good at preventing the outcome. Except once. And that was all it took to change my entire life and create a new one. So, why is he trying to find out more about Hendricks now? What would have changed for him to come around, not remotely interested in fatherhood, just needing the confirmation of his progeny? Would he stop trying to worm his way into my life if I told him the truth, or would he want more? It's the more that has me worried.

“Harley, get your cute butt over here and see what the little man has built. I swear, he is the most inventive kid I know, and that’s saying somethin’ because I have lots of nieces and nephews.”

I cringe, my fingers flexing against the cutting board, and release the knife and poor sweet potato I had been absently slicing into ever smaller pieces. I’ve had many nicknames over the years, and Knox has latched on to one of my least favorites. It doesn’t suit me, but it also isn’t worth fighting over, since it’s just a nickname. I make my way over to the couch, where I lean against the arm and gaze over Knox’s big body, making my deep couch cushions look tiny, and Hendricks kneeling next to him, little boy face animated as he tells Knox about his Lego creation.

“It has a rocket back here and these wheels help it roll real fast. This propeller makes it fly, and these wings steady it in the air,” Hendricks explains, pointing at the multi-colored bricks and plastic pieces patchworked together into the semblance of a vehicle.

“He built a—” Knox pauses and consults Hendricks, “hey, little man, what did you say this was called? I want to make sure I tell your mom the correct name.”

Hendricks looks up with a smile, his eyes shining under the attention. “It’s a quadmantulator,” he says, making up a term I’ve never heard before. “Quad, because it does four things. It flies, it drives, it hovers, and it rolls, see,” he says, tossing his creation along the couch with a burst of noise he’s decided should accompany it. The wings break off as it hits the arm of the couch and he huffs. “I’m still testing it out. I gotta fix what keeps breaking.” He picks up the pieces and returns to the floor where his Lego pieces are carefully grouped together, not by color or shape, but by some other sorting method he favors. He is meticulous, though it just appears messy. My little mad scientist in the making.

“I’m impressed that he knew quad means four, and he listed four different actions his machine can do,” Knox says, looping a big arm around my hips and scooping me from the edge of the couch to his lap.

I’m tall at five feet nine inches and sporting mama cushioning, so I’m not the thin model I once was, but in Knox’s lap, I feel small. I blink rapidly as I think of another man who made me feel light and graceful and fit against me so perfectly that we became extensions of the other instead of two distinct people. I tilt my head against Knox’s shoulder to avoid him seeing any distress that may be evident on my face. I can't be thinking of Zander now, when Knox is holding me, showing me what true attentiveness can look like after years of going through life alone, raising a son whose father had no clue he existed, and wanted to stay that way.

“I’m making turkey burgers and sweet potato wedges,” I say, lifting my head to look at Knox’s profile.

While he’s become a part of my life, I’ve hesitated to really let him in. True, we have something warm, but it’s not an all-out burning fire of lust that propels us to keep seeing each other. It’s warm like a friendship, a camaraderie, and while I find him attractive, and I enjoy his company, I haven’t felt that spark I know is possible between two people.

A spark I felt with Zander that turned into a roaring wildfire only to have it smothered out immediately. Knowing how easy it is to crush hopes, I feel I’m holding back even now, when he’s been nothing but amazing. I haven't been able to open up about Hendricks’s father, or most of my life before him.

Knox knows me as the foodie girl with a YouTube channel and a new cookbook, not the model who flew around the world for high-profile shoots, eating only carrot sticks and subsisting on iced coffee. He knows me for sharing thirst traps and body positivity on social media, but not the hard-won truce I’ve made with my body after years of eating disorders and low self-esteem. There are dark places and skeletons in my closet that I haven't been able to share with him, no matter how dependable he’s been, because, deep down, I know he could crush me, too.

After Hendricks is in bed and the dishes from dinner are cleaned up, Knox pulls my feet into his lap on the couch and rubs my instep. “You okay, Harley?” he asks softly, his eyes on the muted TV screen streaming The Office, giving me some space to answer without being too direct.

I sink down into the couch cushion with the tingle of pleasure that rolls its way up my leg from his hands. “Everything’s fine,” I answer automatically. “Just feeling the nonstop press schedule, I guess.”

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