Page 103 of L.O.V.E

I turned to find Natalie in the doorway, feet bare, wearing my plaid pajama bottoms rolled tight at the ankles and a black T-shirt that hung halfway down her hips. Hair a mess. Still the sexiest damn woman I’d ever seen.

“Morning, sunshine.” For a long moment, I stood stone still, unsteady emotions rolling through me. Guilt a ball and chain holding me captive in the pits of my despair.

Mere months ago, I’d sworn to forever love another woman. Yet when I shared space with Natalie King, thoughts of my dead wife were nothing more than smudges on the window of my past, too easily disregarded, too hastily wiped away.

Then, Natalie flashed that gorgeous smile and came my way. I met her halfway, and we collided, arms cinching, lips crashing, bodies melding, and she didn’t give a fuck that I was drenched in sweat. She didn’t care that someone might see her in baggy clothes, messy hair, or no makeup. She was there for me and only me, and somehow that mattered more than pride, grief, self-pity, or the guilt I carried for loving one woman while violently mourning another.

I kissed her dizzy. Urged her legs around my waist, then walked to the mirrored wall and pinned her against the glass.

“Why are you down here and not in bed with me?” she asked, her voice the sweetest aphrodisiac.

Because my maybe dead wife might be sending her messages. God, had Natalie even looked at her phone yet?

“You see a therapist. I beat a heavy bag.”

Sad eyes studied me. “You can talk about them, you know. To me. If you need to.”

Fuck. She was everything. “How long do I need to mourn before its appropriate to make you mine?”

Natalie raised a finger to my forehead, traced my eyebrows and the slope of my nose. “Is that something we have to worry about right now? We have this morning, then I have to go home.”

“God. I don’t want to let you go,” I growled into her neck before taking a nibble.

Natalie’s finger dropped from my jaw to the gold chain around my neck, her silver eyes shimmering with questions. I’d never thanked her for returning the pendant, or for the chain that was far to masculine for the small cross but paired perfectly regardless.Thankyounever had seemed sufficient.

I choked down a thick ball of emotion and managed to mumble, “It was my sister’s.”

“You carried it around in your pocket,” she whispered, then tapped on my chest. “You should keep it closer to your heart.”

She decimated me. Tore me to shreds, then stitched me back together, a better, stronger version. Where she’d found that cross, or how she’d known I’d carried it in my pocket, didn’t fucking matter. The fact that she knew and cared?Fuck. Words fell weak.

Instead, I poured all my passion and gratitude into a kiss, everything inside me spilling over. Natalie took and gave back tenfold, writhing and moaning in my arms, and I fell into a heavy fog of love and lust.

Natalie pulled away first, her cheeks rosy, her gaze feral. “Take me back upstairs.”

“I need to show you something first.” I dropped my arms, and Natalie lowered her feet to the ground, claiming my left hand, entwining our fingers. So trusting.

I locked up the gym. Hand in hand, we ascended the stairs. We bypassed my office, then my apartment, and I took her to the security elevator and punched the code.

One floor up, I kissed her hard before the doors slid open.

Fresh paint stifled the air. That smell meant progress.

Natalie spun a three-sixty, taking in the reception desk, the office doors, the security cameras. Down at the far end of the hall, plastic sheeting hung floor to ceiling and a ladder lay folded on the floor.

“What is this?”

We couldn’t go any farther since construction was still underway.

“You already know my sister died.”

Natalie grabbed my hands and nodded, giving me her full attention.

“What I never told you was that she’d died at the hands of her boyfriend. She was a freshman at UW. I was still in high school. I fucking idolized her. She was so goddamn smart. Wanted to be a pediatrician.” I blinked against the moisture in my eyes. “We knew she had a boyfriend, though she never brought him home. She was fucking good at hiding the bruises. None of us had a clue. She’d withdrawn from the family, but I assumed that was because of her workload at school.

“The first time he put her in the hospital, she told us she’d tripped down the stairs at his apartment. I don’t remember her excuse the second time, but when he’d insisted she recover at his home, rather than with her family, we knew.”

“I dragged Martin and Ellis to his place. Practically knocked his goddamn door down. He came home while I was packing her things. The fucker insisted we were wrong. Cadence backed him up. They threw us out. I called Dad. Dad called the police. They couldn’t do a goddamn thing.

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