More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(74)

By now his fingers were plunging into her as he desperately tried to make her come before he did. But it was a lost cause. She swirled her tongue around the bottom edge of his corona, and he was gone.

“Tina.” Protest? Plea? Prayer? He did not know. But it was the only word he could utter before his entire body convulsed and he lost control, spilling into her eager mouth. She cried out, the force of his orgasm taking her by surprise, and for a second she hesitated before continuing to suckle. Her mouth gentling around his jerking shaft. After one last suctioning pull, she reluctantly lifted her head. She gave him a smug grin, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

He carefully used the fist in her hair to tug her head up and brought her to him for a hungry kiss. He could taste himself on her lips, and it was more erotic than he could ever have imagined.

She made a muffled sound against his lips and finally clenched around his still-thrusting fingers and came. Beautifully. Her head flying back to reveal the arch of her throat, her mouth opening on a soundless scream. The tightening of her sheath around his fingers was almost painful, but he fucking loved it. Against all odds—considering his mind-blowing orgasm of just a few minutes ago—he was semihard watching this fully clothed, wantonly disheveled, gorgeous creature come on his fingers.

She collapsed on the bed beside him and snuggled against his side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close, burying his nose in her fragrant hair. Apples . . . her hair smelled like freshly sliced green apples. It was appealing. Like everything else about her.

“That was nice,” she said sleepily. Her hand had crept under his T-shirt, and her fingers were toying with the pendant he always wore beneath his clothes. He tensed. The damned thing was such a part of his identity that he hardly gave it much thought anymore, and he knew she hadn’t noticed it before now. She had fallen asleep soon after their bout last night. And then after the nightmare everything had gone to shit. But now, the more she fiddled with it, the more he sensed her interest growing.

She lifted her head and pushed his shirt up. But he flattened his hand against hers, effectively stopping the movement.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice alive with curiosity.

“Nothing.”

“I didn’t know you wore a necklace.”

“Pendant,” he corrected stiffly, and she rolled her eyes.

“Potato, potahto,” she said dismissively.

“I never got that. Nobody ever says potahto.”

“You’re dissembling. What is it? Show me.”

Shit.

He sighed and tugged on the corded black leather strap, dragging the pendant out from beneath his T-shirt. She flipped over onto her stomach, draping one arm over his chest and lifting the pendant with her other hand. She peered at it closely, looking baffled.

“What is it?” she asked, circling the thick, heavy silver hoop round and round on her finger. He knew the instant she recognized it and flushed when she lifted her shocked gaze to his.

“It’s an earring. My earring.” He’d had it welded shut and smoothed out so that the little hinge closure would no longer open—it was practically seamless now. But yes, it was her earring. And he’d been wearing it like a sentimental fool for more than ten years. He didn’t even know why. He should have returned it to her. Or thrown it out . . . but he’d found it in his bed the day after that awful night and couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

Her initials were engraved on the inside . . . another reason he should have returned it to her, and yet it had felt like an even better reason to keep it.

“What is this?” she asked in horror. “Some kind of trophy? A reminder of your conquest?”

Goddamnit! Of course she would think that.

“Nah, I have bedposts to notch for that,” he retorted scathingly, getting off the bed and dragging his jeans up, buttoning and belting efficiently before angrily straightening his T-shirt and—keeping his eyes focused on hers—deliberately, and somewhat defiantly, dropping his pendant down the neck of his shirt again.

“Give it to me,” she demanded, leaping from the bed and holding her hand out.

“No. It’s mine.”

“It’s not yours. Oh my God. It has my initials engraved into it. It’s mine and I want it back.”

“Do you still have the other one?”

“What does that matter? You can’t have it.”

“Jesus, this is fucking childish!”

“You stole it!”

“You lost it!”

“It wasn’t lost. You’ve had it all this time. That’s theft.”

“Why do you want it?”

“What does that matter?”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated furiously, folding her arms over her chest and looking more pissed off than Harris had ever seen her before. “Why? So that you can’t have it! That’s why.”

The words stung. Well, not the words, but the absolute loathing behind them. It more than stung—it burned. Like acid. He swallowed and tried to formulate a response, but she wasn’t quite done scalding him with her vitriol yet.

“You don’t get to have a fond keepsake of the worst night of my life, Harris. You just don’t!” Her face was red with anger, her hair bristling like a fiery halo around her head. She looked fierce, furious, and completely devastated, and Harris had no defense against that.