Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(63)

“No.”

“Then no.”

A grin tugs at my lips. “You want to go for a walk?”



We walk through the thick brush, listening for the sounds of the water stream. “Is it weird that I always look around for dead bodies when I’m walking through bushes and trails?” I ask.

“Not weird at all,” he says sarcastically.

We walk for a good fifteen minutes before we reach a clearing, and the sight that greets us is nothing less than spectacular. The clear skies reflect off the clear blue water of the calm lake, not a wave in sight.

“You think it’ll be cold?” I ask, standing on the water’s edge with him.

Connor squats down and runs his hand through the water, then comes up shaking his head. “It’s surprisingly warm,” he says, then looks up at me, his eyebrows raised. “You want to go for a swim?”

“In what?”

“The water, dummy.”

Smartass. “I mean, wearing what?”

“I vote nothing.”

“I veto your nothing vote.”

He laughs, eyeing me. “Well, isn’t your underwear the same as a bikini?”

I chew on my lip, nervous. Technically yes, but even if I were standing in a bikini in front of him, I’d still feel self-conscious. “Turn around.”

His eyebrows lift. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

He sighs but complies.

I take a moment to breathe, gather my courage. I slip off my shoes and socks first, and then my blouse and skirt. Then I throw them to the side of him, so he’s sure of what I’m doing. As soon as he sees the pile of my clothes, he starts stripping out of his own. With my thumb between my teeth, I watch his every move, entranced. It’s as if he was born to remove his shirt the way he does, his back muscles flexing, and then he unbuckles his belt, and my mouth goes dry. He drops his pants to his ankles and then kicks his feet to remove them altogether. “Can I turn around now?”

“No.”

I take a few steps forward until I’m right behind him. Reaching up, both hands start at his shoulders, then down his back. I marvel at the way his head droops forward, the way his muscles ripple beneath my palms. I kiss the spot between his shoulder blades, his whisper of my name doing nothing to deter me from closing the gap between us, my front to his back. I reach around, my hands on his bare chest, and then down, down, down, to each dip of his abs. I close my eyes, trace each one, and then move lower and lower. “Ava…” He spins in my arms, so quick I shriek a little. “You’re so fucking bad,” he whispers in my ear, his arousal pressed against my stomach. I bite down on my lip, crane my neck to allow him to kiss me there, his heated hands on my bare back. He moves up with one hand, fingers curling in my hair, gently pulling, forcing me to throw my head back. His mouth is on my collarbone and then on my chest, my breast. He bites down on the top of my bra, tugging just enough that I feel the air against my nipple. He makes a sound from deep in his throat before capturing my mouth with his, warm and wet and open—just for me. With one hand in my hair, the other lowers, curls against the curve of my ass. “So fucking bad,” he murmurs. And then he’s lifting me off the ground, my legs instinctively going around his waist. Our most intimate parts connect in the most painstakingly perfect way. He grips my thighs as our kiss deepens, our desperation revealed in the sounds we make, the heat emitting between us.

Charged.

Electric.

Magic.

I writhe against him, searching for more.

“Ava,” he groans, pulling back.

I suck in breath after breath, needing the oxygen, but needing him more.

His gaze drops to my breasts, rising and falling, frantic and frenzied. “I’m about to…” He clears his throat, then nuzzles my neck. “I’m so fucking close to…” Then he laughs. “We need to cool the fuck down.”

I nod, eyelids heavy, hands going to the back of his head.

“You ready to go in?”

“Carry me?”

He rears back, his eyes holding mine. “Always, Ava.” And I know what he’s saying without saying it—he’ll not just carry me physically, but metaphorically, too. He’ll carry the heavy weight that comes with all my burdens. Always.





The water is cooler on our bodies than we expected, but we adjust quickly. “If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?” he asks, circling me while I wade around the shallow water.

“Easy. True crime fact checker. No, wait! I’d host my own podcast. Or, like, make YouTube videos, but without me in them. Maybe just my voice. I like my voice.”

“You do have a nice voice,” he says, stopping in front of me to hold me to him. I instinctively wrap myself around him. He adds, “But you’d definitely get more views if you showed your face.”

“You think?”

“Ava, I’m a guy with working eyes. Yes.”

“Do you think guys would—you know—over me?” I joke.

He laughs. “Also, yes. But I don’t like to think about that.”

“If I get enough views, I could possibly make an income from it.”

“Possibly,” he says, amusing my random thoughts.

“Maybe I should get a boob job,” I murmur, looking down at my breasts.