Thrive (Addicted, #4)(89)

When I come for the second time, it’s short, sporadic, and leaves me utterly breathless.

Lo laughs between his heavy groans, still rocking against me, building his own climax and rousing a new one for me. “You would be an awful lay if you were a guy,” he explains the source of his humor.

“Huh.”

He kisses me and clarifies, “You wouldn’t be able to last that long.”

True. “How am I as a girl…?” I grip his biceps, distracted as his thrusts turn slow and deep. Oh God. My back arches, and my lips part in need.

His amber eyes graze me as though I’m the most beautiful broken thing he’s ever been a part of. “You’re perfect.”

It’s a lie, but he makes it sound so true. I cry as he hits another sensitive place. My hand drifts to his ass that tightens with each push into me.

He snatches my wrist and reads my watch. “Dammit.”

“Are we late?” I ask, shutting my eyes and gliding into another world. “I don’t mind…so much…” Oh God. My toes curl.

“Not yet,” he tells me, and I take it that he’s talking about the time. Not my climax, because I can’t restrain it like he can withhold his.

There is no warning before he quickens his pace, slaying every nerve and seizing my breath. I’m his for the taking.

My eyes stay closed, focusing on his husky grunts that are primal and needy. My core thrums with deep-seated attraction. Physically, mentally, emotionally—Loren Hale has all of me.

“Open,” he whispers in a coarse voice.

Oh. I open my eyes.

And drown beneath his amber ones.

*

When we exit the limo, the wind whips my shoulder-length hair, snowflakes settling on my black pea coat.

Fifteen minutes early to Maria’s ballet. Must be a record.

Lo’s breath smokes as he shuts the door and nears me on the sidewalk. No cameras around. It’s one of those rare nights where no one paid attention to what the Calloways were up to. Other families excitedly head into the theatre, and I’m about to follow when Lo grabs my arm.

“Wait,” he says.

I spin back around. Wreaths hang on lampposts, dim light casting halos on the street. I have a sudden flashback, remembering the snow, the wreaths. Lo was twenty-one when he went to rehab, on Christmas Eve. And now he’s twenty-three.

He must read my faraway expression because he says, “Can you believe I’ve been sober for this long?”

“Yes,” I say definitively. His light brown hair is dusted with snowflakes, some flutter and land on his eyelashes. His face is flushed more from earlier than the cold. He’s beautiful, seductive even. I could kiss him again.

“We’re doing well, aren’t we?” he asks. “This…” He motions between the two of us. “It’s working.” He’s been so confident about our new routine—sex almost three times a day and wherever we like—that it’s a surprise hearing him question it now.

“I think so,” I say. “It feels right.” Not every time is easy. Sometimes I’m a little compulsive and grabby, but I don’t think either of us expects it to be good twenty-four-seven for the rest of our lives.

There will always be bad days, but it’s how we live those bad days that counts.

He says, “Can you believe you’ve learned how to control most of your compulsions?” He rests his arms on my shoulders, like we’re about to dance.

“It still feels like a dream,” I whisper.

“It’s real to me,” he says. “It took you years. It wasn’t an overnight thing, Lil.” His gaze falls to my lips. And after a long moment, he breaks the quiet. “I want to marry you.”

The words rock me back a little. He holds tighter.

“Soon,” he continues on. “In the next year maybe?” His eyes rush mine, searching for confirmation, to ensure we’re on the same page.

“Next year,” I smile and slap his arm in excitement. “What if we get married on 6-16?”

He’s grinning. His sharp jawline and cheekbones just plain gorgeous. “Whatever you want.”

He leans down, kissing me with the Christmas lights shimmering overhead. With the snow falling, it’s a picture perfect moment.

I wish I could snap-shot it and save it for later. Maybe because I have a feeling. One that hits me as he hugs me to his chest. We’ve never let ourselves be excited about something further down the road. Two addicts constructing a future together: when I think of it like that, it all begins to sound like make-believe.

Too rooted in fantasy to ever come true.





PART THREE

“Love is for souls, not bodies.”

– Scarlet Witch, Giant-Size Avengers Vol 1 #4





{ 41 }

1 year : 06 months

February





LOREN HALE


Daisy bounces on the diving board with a devious smile, staring right at my brother. He sits with me at a black iron patio table with plates of burgers and fries.

“Just because she’s eighteen—” I can’t even get the words out.

“I fucking know,” he says.

She does a cannonball close to the wall’s edge, splashing our feet. My father’s indoor pool is decorated with yellow streamers to celebrate her eighteenth birthday.