Page 76 of Tangled Desires

My head’s a mess, but my body’s already nodding. He’s kissing me again before I can catch my breath, and then I’m off the ground, his arms around me, the door slamming shut behind us. He carries me like I’m weightless, laying me on his bed like I’m something fragile. It’s unnerving, the way he looks at me, desperate and raw, like I’m the answer to every unspoken question. His hands skate down my sides, his touch grounding me when my head’s spinning a million miles an hour. “I need you,” he whispers, his lips brushing mine.

His shirt hits the floor first, and every ounce of irritation I’ve ever had for him evaporates, burned alive by the heat crawling up my spine. I should stop this—should say something, anything—but his eyes lock onto mine, steady and unrelenting, like I’m the only thing keeping him from coming apart. His hands grip the hem of my shirt, and for a second, the air between us feels too thick to breathe.

He moves slow—controlled, deliberate. Not the chaos from before, but something softer, heavier. He peels the fabric away, his gaze never wavering, like he’s searching for a crack in me he can’t afford to miss. I don’t flinch. I let him look, let him see.

“You have me,” I whisper back.

My chest tightens as I watch him. Months of sparring, glaring, pretending I hated him—it never showed me this, theraw, unfiltered ache bleeding through him now. It’s like staring into something I shouldn’t see, something breaking apart and holding me hostage in the best and worst ways. And I let it. Let him. Because stopping this feels impossible. His hands move lower, pulling at the last piece of clothing between us.

Harrison settles between my legs, his breaths ragged, his eyes dark enough to make my stomach flip. His mouth crashes into mine again, all teeth and heat, leaving me gasping. It’s a kiss that says everything and nothing—a little bit of promise, a little bit punishment, and way too much for me to handle.

Then he’s filling me in one deep, relentless push, and I don’t know if I want to scream or cry or beg him to give me a second to catch up. He moves slow, precise, like every thrust is deliberate, meant to keep me teetering on the edge of something I’m not sure I’ll survive.

“You’re so fucking perfect, Immy.” His words rasp against my skin, and it sends a bolt of lightning through me.Perfect. I’m not. But the way he says it, the way he moves—it’s like he believes it, and for this moment, I almost do, too.

“You’re like a dream,” he mutters. His hand stays firm at the back of my neck, holding me close like I might bolt—not that I could with the way he’s got me pinned, his arms caging me as his hips move, slow and deliberate. My head tips back, a curse slipping out before it turns into his name. Missionary. Fucking missionary. How is this the most intimate, ruinous thing I’ve ever felt? Good god.

Sex with Harrison is…everything. Too much, too good, too consuming. And this—this has every chance of wrecking me. Because suddenly, his words from that one reckless night—the ones I brushed off, laughed at—are clawing their way back, ready to bite me in the fucking ass.

My head tips back, and I bite down on a curse that turns into his name instead. “Fuck, Harrison—”

My orgasm claws its way up through me. It’s too much, but not enough, and I squeeze my eyes shut as it ripples, drawn out like never before. Harrison groans as he follows, hips stuttering before he stills completely. Warmth spreads between us, and for a moment, we just lie there, tangled and heaving. I twitch, but his hand presses me back down.

“Don’t. Please, stay?” he says hesitantly.

“Okay,” I murmur, resting against him. Just for a minute. Maybe two.

After we clean up, he’s leaning back against the bedhead, and I’m curled against him, the room quiet except for the moonlight creeping through his window. His fingers absently play with my hair.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

He hesitates. “Just for being here.”

I can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at my lips. His hand rests on my back, and his breathing evens out. But my mind? Racing. I feel his heartbeat, his warmth, and realize he’s holding me differently tonight. More protectively. I tense when he shifts, lowering himself to rest his head against my belly, his lips pressing gently to my skin. Goosebumps follow in the wake of his kiss, my breath catching as I try to ignore the flutter in my chest. His voice is soft, barely a whisper, “You’ve got me, Immy. Always.”

I don’t respond. I can’t. This is Harrison. The one who hides behind a grin, keeps it light, never lets anything get too deep. But tonight… Tonight, there’s something raw. Something vulnerable. And that messes with me because if he’s starting to feel more... maybe I am, too. I don’t know what to do with that.

Not when he’s the last person I ever thought I’d fall for.

25

Usually, by midweek, it’s chaos—jobs backing up, customers losing their shit, and me wondering if Friday even exists. But today? I got it all done. No drama. Clocked off early.

Not bad for a Wednesday.

Imogen texted earlier—salon’s slammed, she’ll be late. She’s been on her feet all day, carrying the extra weight, dealing with the pain, and it’s driving me crazy. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. But what the hell can I do? I can’t make her leave her job—it’s what she wants. I just want her to be comfortable. She deserves that much.

I’m in the kitchen, wearing mittens. Fucking mittens. Yeah, I know, it’s ridiculous. Midge bought them for me, said they were cute. Cute. Right. But you know what? They’re the only thing I’ve got, so here I am, pulling a tray of lasagna out of the oven without burning myself for the third time. Never again, I swear.Last time, I nearly set myself on fire—fuck, it still stings just thinking about it.

Half an hour later, dinner’s ready, plates are set and the candles are lit. After her long day, I’ve got to make sure she comes home to something good. Something easy. Something that takes the edge off. I should feel like a total knob, but honestly? I’m kind of excited. When the hell did I get all domestic? Christ. But Immy’s going to walk in here, see this—see me trying—and I don’t know how she’ll react.

It’s for her. I just want her to see that I care.

I’m staring at this goddamn lasagna, which—no lie—is actually not half bad. I’m proud of it. I’m still wearing these bloody mittens when I hear the door.Perfect timing. Imogen walks in and juststops. Right at the doorway. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

“What am I witnessing right now?” she asks.

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