Page 37 of Accidental Groom
“Christ,Elena?—”
I break again, my release slamming into me harder than he is, barely a warning before it hits me violently. It’s overwhelming, mind-numbing, and I can’t hear whatever tears from my throat, can’t hear whatever he says in the height of it.
But it’s his undoing.
Reality crashes in around me the moment his hips stutter and a guttural, broken groan rips from him. He buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside of me, bits of bark breaking off where he’s clutching the tree on either side of me.
We’re both shaking when he finally stills, his breath hot against my lips, his exhales wheezed.
I have no idea what to say.Fuck you? This was a mistake, we need a divorce, what the hell have we done?
But that would all be lies. Because I don’t regret it, not for a second, not after the way he looks at me as he slowly comes down from the high, not after the gentleness of his actions as he slowly lowers me back to the ground. Not after any of it.
Maybe that’s the worst mistake of it all.
Chapter 12
Harry
Two weeks without her soft skin beneath my fingertips has been torture.
I’ve imagined it, can’tstopimagining all of it—how she felt wrapped around me, how she looked when she shattered, how her voice cracked when she moaned my name like it meant something. Every night, I lie there, haunted by the memory of her against that goddamn tree. I think about the way her nails bit into my shoulders, the heat of her despite the slight chill that morning, the soft and desperate noises she’d made when I was inside of her.
I try not to.
But I fucked her against a tree as if I were a man half my age, as if I couldn’t help myself, and the wanting is worse now. It’s not easier, it’s not dulled, it’s not quelled like I’d hoped it would be the first time I touched myself with her in my head. It’s grown into something gnawing and raw and constant now, and I keep finding myself walking through the house like a man on the verge of violence.
But it doesn’t help that we see each other too frequently to truly put her out of my mind.
We try not to. At least,Ido. There’s a silent agreement, I think — some unspoken truce where she avoids the house in the mornings, and I don’t go near the garden after five. But it doesn’t work. I still see her slipping into the kitchen through the sliding glass doors, her feet bare and a robe slipping off her shoulder. I still see her moving her folding chair out back every hour or so when she’s reading and chasing the setting sun in the evenings, claiming the yard like she belongs here. Like she’salwaysbelonged.
And I hate that it feels like she does, hate how natural it looks, how right it feels. But more than that, I hate myself for letting it all happen.
Because Matthew found George.
Croatia, then Greece, then India. And now he’s in Thailand, of all places. He’s still running, but he’s not smart enough not to use his card every time he gets somewhere new — and Matthew’s tailing him. He found his hotel, foundhim, before he managed to slip out of his grasp again.
I’m still trying to decide just how badly I’ll throttle my son when he’s back in my reach.
Helefther, and still, every time I so much as glance at Elena, it still feels like she’s his. Like I’m trespassing. And I know it’s irrational, I know that she doesn’t technically belong to anyone, but it doesn’t stop it from burning like acid in my esophagus every time she looks at me with those wide brown eyes. It’s like she’s watching me as if she’s waiting for me to pick up where we left off, and I just…can’t.
But I can’t stop wanting to.
The buzzer sounds throughout the house, making me nearly jump out of my skin in my desk chair, but it’s a small mercy. It’s a distraction, at least.
I flip up the small, built-in monitor on my desk. The screen shows a live feed of a black car idling outside the property's gateswith the driver's side window rolled down. A head of slicked-back blonde hair and wire-frame glasses appears as Nathan, one of the property managers for the Switzerland project, leans slightly out.
I pinch the skin between my brows to keep from actively screaming and press down the button on the speaker. “It’s eight in the morning,” I say, only the slightest hint of irritation creeping into my voice.
“I emailed you last night.” The words come out as a faint puff of smoke, a cigarette materializing over the edge of the open window. Little clumps of ash fall onto the pavement below as he flicks the filter. “Said I needed to stop by.”
“Did it occur to you that I wouldn’t see that until I looked at my computer this morning?”
“Considering how late you’ve been working recently, no, it didn’t.” He ashes his cigarette again. “It’s important.”
I huff out my irritation. “Put that out somewhere thatisn’tmy lawn,” I grumble, hitting theOpen Gatebutton before shutting the monitor into the desk.
The home office blurs around me, rich wood and creaking leather left behind as I force myself to my feet. I hadn’t even bothered to make myself presentable this morning — just a quick shower and fresh lounging clothes, my long-sleeve white shirt and grey sweats failing to screambusiness casual. The sun warms my face as I make my way down the hall, large floor-to-ceiling windows to my left and rooms upon empty rooms to my right.
