Page 122 of The Hearts We Fumble
He pulls me into the water, guiding me until I kneel on the seat, my back pressed to his chest. His hands roam over my body, slow and deliberate, mapping every curve as he positions me exactly how he wants me.
A sharp inhale escapes me when his fingers tighten around my hips, his grip firm but reverent. The thick head of his cock presses at my entrance, teasing, stretching.
“Stay just like that,” he rasps against my ear, his breath hot against my damp skin. “Not gonna last long, baby, but I need to feel you now.”
When he thrusts inside, I moan, my body stretching to take him. His arms wrap around me, pinning me to his chest.
“Let me feel you squeeze my dick, firecracker.”
His hands move to my breasts, kneading as he thrusts into me. The water swirls around us, our movements slow but deep, every stroke sending pleasure through my veins.
As I tighten around him, he groans, burying his face in my neck.
We fall apart together, his hold never loosening, his breath ragged against my skin.
And as my heartbeat slows, one thought settles deep in my chest—I will never get enough of this man.
Chapter Thirty
Wyatt
Zane is leaning against his car when I step outside, the crisp evening air curling around me. His face is angled down, his expression unreadable, but the rigid set of his shoulders tells me something’s off.
The second my heels click against the driveway, his head lifts, and our eyes lock. Concern lingers in the furrow of his brows, but as his gaze drags over me—slow and assessing—his features soften, just a little.
“I love you too, Mom,” he murmurs into the phone, his voice quieter now. “Keep me updated.”
With a slow exhale, he ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket, then closes the distance between us in just a few strides. His arms wrap around my waist, his grip firm, like he needs this—needs me.
When he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath warm against my skin, I don’t hesitate to let my fingers slip into his hair, holding him close. He presses a lingering kiss to my shoulder, then another along my collarbone, his lips skimming my skin with an aching tenderness that makes my chest tighten. A shiver rolls through me, but I don’t pull away. I could stay here forever.
“How’s your mom?” I ask softly when he finally leans back, though his arms stay locked around me.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily, before reaching past me to open the car door.
I wait, sensing he’s not ready to answer just yet. It isn’t until he’s settled into the driver’s seat beside me that he finally speaks.
“She was calling to give me a heads-up before the news broke.” His voice is steady, but there’s an underlying tension woven through it.
My stomach tightens. I haven’t checked my phone today, so I have no clue what he’s talking about. “What happened?”
Zane shifts in his seat, dragging a palm over his thigh before gripping the steering wheel like he needs something to anchor himself. “She filed for divorce. Any minute now, the media’s gonna catch wind of it, and it’s gonna spread like wildfire.”
I blink, absorbing the weight of his words. This isn’t just any breakup—it’s the unraveling of a marriage that’s shaped so much of Zane’s life. And with playoffs on the horizon, the timing couldn’t be worse.
I study him carefully. “How are you feeling about it?”
He turns his head, meeting my gaze with a shrug. “Is it messed up that I feel relieved?” He exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Honestly, I wish it had happened years ago. Maybe things would’ve been different. Then again…” He shakes his head, glancing out the windshield. “Who knows where I would’ve ended up?”
He doesn’t have to say the words for me to understand. If his parents had split back then, this house—his childhood home—might not have stayed in the family. And his mom, Maggie, is from Virginia. She’d probably move back to be closer to her side of the family.
If that had happened, would Zane and I even be sitting here now? Would our lives have ever intertwined the way they have?
“It’s not messed up to feel relieved,” I say gently. “Your dad’s temper… the tension in that house. It’s been weighing on you for years.”
His scoff is sharp, but he nods, his fingers tightening on the wheel. For a moment, his expression turns distant, like he’s lost in a memory he doesn’t want to relive.
Then, his gaze lifts, locking onto mine, searching for something—reassurance, maybe. Or just someone who understands.
