Heartless (14 page)

A
ce

S
he wakes
before I do Saturday morning. I hear her stirring around in the kitchen, cursing under her breath after some loud, metallic clink. If she’s trying to be quiet, she’s failing miserably, but it’s not her fault. This cabin is small. And it’s okay because it’s time to get up anyway.

Tossing the covers off, I trek to the bathroom in the hall and get cleaned up.

Last night marked the first time I’d fucked anyone since Kerenza.

I thought it would be harder than it was. I thought it would feel mechanical and automated, like just going through motions and nothing more. I didn’t think I’d look at her the way I did. I didn’t think my hands would want to explore every square inch of her soft body or that my tongue would crave her the next morning.

My cock is hard as a rock, and maybe some of that has to do with the fact that I just woke up, but thinking about last night – about Aidy and what we did – isn’t helping matters.

Leaving the bathroom, I head toward the kitchen, greeted with the scent of eggs and toast.

“Oh, hey.” She turns to me for a fraction of a second before tending to the skillet where she’s attempting to get a spatula beneath two eggs.

“Need help?” I offer, speaking to the backside of her.

“No thanks.”

I’m not sure if this is an awkward morning after thing or if she regrets sleeping with me or if she’s just not a morning person, but after we fucked last night, I held her until I felt the rumble of her stomach beneath my palm.

We got dressed after that, and I went to grab the crappies off the stringer, got them cleaned up, and then fried them for dinner.

Aidy didn’t act like anything was wrong after that. She read for a little bit by the fire, and I sat on the front porch and listened to the crickets because those are the kinds of things you don’t get to do much living in the city, but now it feels like she doesn’t want to give me the time of day.

“Everything okay?” I clear my throat and take a seat at the head of the table.

“Mm, hm,” she says, back still toward me.

I study her, watching as she plates our breakfast, retracing last night’s actions step by step.

None of it was planned.

I hope she knows that.

I didn’t invite her here with the intention to fuck her.

I wasn’t waiting for some kind of opportunity to kiss her or get her naked, and I sure as hell wasn’t trying to be romantic with the whole sex-by-the-fire thing.

“Aidy,” I say, unable to bear another minute of awkwardness. “Last night-”

She spins on her heels, two plates in her hands, and I stop speaking when I see her face.

It’s bright red.

Sunburn red almost.

But only around her mouth and chin. It spreads down her neck and stops along her collarbone.

“Here you go.” She places my plate before me. Her gaze is averted, her fingertips wrapped around a fork as she sits down.

“Jesus, what happened to your face?” The answer comes to me the second the question leaves my lips. My hand runs to my thick scruff.

Aidy glances at me from across the table, eyes wide, and her hands lift to the cherry-red skin. “Is it really that bad?”

“It looks . . . like rug burn.”

She looks down at her plate and sighs. “I can cover it up with makeup, I guess, but if you ever want to kiss me again, you’re going to have to shave.”

I try not to chuckle. “I’m sorry. I’ll trim it later.”

“Not trim,” she says. “
Shave
.”

My palm grazes my left cheek. I started growing this out last year, when I was hospitalized after the accident. At first it was to cover the scar and to help make myself less noticeable to the general public. It was a mask of sorts. Covering everything I didn’t want to see anymore.

The scar was a reminder.

And not having to look at it every day has been a saving grace of sorts.

“Please?” Aidy says. Her face falls. “I mean, I’m assuming you might want to kiss me again. I don’t know. Could be wrong. Don’t want to get presumptuous here.”

She cuts into her eggs, mumbling to herself. If she were anyone else, it’d be annoying. It wouldn’t be endearing at all. But everything about Aidy is adorable and sexy and whimsical. She’s definitely not my type. She’s unlike anything I’ve ever given a second look to before. When I really sit and think about it, I still barely know her.

The fact that she’s here, sitting across from me at my lake house, spending time with me despite the fact that she could be with anyone else probably having way more fun, is nothing short of a miracle, and it’s not lost on me.

“I want to kiss you again,” I declare.

Aidy stops chewing and looks up.

“I’m
going
to kiss you again,” I correct myself.

Her lips pull into a pleased half-smile. “Well then, you know exactly what you need to do.”

I drag my hand across my beard again. “Can I think about it?”

“Nope.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking of me.” I doubt I can make her feel sorry for me, but it’s worth a shot.

“Does your beard serve some kind of purpose?”

“Yeah. Kind of,” I say.

Aidy tilts her head. “What purpose could it possibly be serving you? It’s July. You don’t live in the mountains. You’re devilishly handsome. What does this beard do besides make you look closed off and angry and hide that incredible smile of yours I
think
I’ve seen all of one time since we met?”

I know damn well I don’t smile much, but in my defense, I didn’t smile much before either. Kerenza was constantly saying it was the only thing she never understood about me. Why would a man, who had every reason in the world to be smiling, refuse to do so? I had the career of my dreams. The woman of my dreams. The home of my dreams. The entire world was at my fingertips.

I never could give her a straight answer that went beyond the fact that I’m not a bubbly and effervescent person. It’s just not how I was made. Maybe I’m too serious. Too intense. Maybe I live too hard and love too hard.

It’s how I’ve always been. I’m wired this way. I don’t think I could change if I tried, and I’m not even sure I want to.

I wear my personality like a coat of armor. It works for me. Always has.

“There’s a scar on my left cheek,” I say, keeping it brief and to the point. “The beard hides it.”

Aidy sits back, expression softening. “Oh, that’s all?”

I chuff, finishing the last of my breakfast. “Yep. That’s all.”

“Is it from your accident?”

I should’ve known she was going to ask questions.

“It is,” I say.

“I’m sure it’s not
that
bad.”

My eyes flick into hers. “Don’t feel like staring at it every day.”

“What happened?” she asks carefully. “With your accident?”

Exhaling hard, I stand and carry my plate to the sink. “I thought you Googled it.”

“I did,” she says. “But you know how those articles are, mostly speculation mixed in with details they yanked from the accident report.”

Standing at the sink, my back to her, I debate giving her the cold hard truth. Telling her where I was going that night and why I was going there and what I was going to do once I got there. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret getting in the car that night.

My body burns from the inside out, my breath growing ragged.

And then I feel the warmth of her palm on the back of my shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Aidy sits her plate on top of mine in the sink and then slinks away.

“Want to go canoeing today?” she asks.

My shoulders relax, and I turn her way. “Yeah.”

Our eyes catch and she smiles.

“Good,” she says. “I’ll go change.”

A
idy

“
W
hy didn’t
you tell me there was an entire closet of board games in the hallway?” I plop down on the sofa beside Ace Saturday evening, a box in my lap with
SORRY!
across the lid.

“Oh, yeah. Those. One of my brothers left those here a few years back.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve played this game? We have to play this.”

“We can’t,” he says.

My smile fades. “Why not?”

“Because I’m extremely competitive,” he says. “And I always win. And I don’t want you to feel bad when you get your ass kicked in
SORRY!”

“Ha.
SORRY!
is my game, Mr. Baseball Man,” I say. “I believe you’re sorely mistaken if you think you’re going to beat me at my own game. I can’t allow it. I just can’t. And I won’t. Maybe you should stick to things you’re good at, like knowing sports trivia . . . and . . . looking hot.”

We went canoeing this morning after breakfast, and somewhere between the middle of the lake and the end of the lake, I received a lesson in Baltimore Firebirds team history.

“That’s all I am to you?” he scoffs. “A hot athlete with a head full of useless facts?”

“Pretty much.” I shrug, pulling the lid off the box and placing the contents on the coffee table in front of us. “I’m red. You’re blue.”

“I want to be red,” he says. “I’m a Firebird. I’m supposed to be red.”

I like this side of him. It’s like I’ve unearthed this playful facet of Ace that I never knew existed. For that, I’ll let him be red.

“Fine,” I say, pretending it upsets me more than it does. “I’ll be green. Because by the time we’re done, you’re going to be green with envy, wishing you had my
SORRY!
skills.”

An hour later, we’ve played four games.

I won the first.

He won the second.

And the third.

I won the fourth.

And now we’re halfway through our tie-breaking lightning round.

We’re neck and neck, each of us waiting to get our last piece to our home spots.

This could be anyone’s game, and I’ve never been so vested. I’ve chewed my left thumbnail to the quick and I haven’t so much as taken my eyes off the board in the last fifteen minutes.

Ace flips the card from the top of the deck and gets a reverse four.

“Ha!” I say, pointing my finger in his face as he moves his red pawn four spots back.

He groans, kneading his hands together before popping his knuckles. He licks his lips, the very ones I’ve been dying to kiss all day and have refused to on account of he hasn’t shaved that monstrosity from his face yet.

He even tried earlier, after we returned from the dock. Ace pressed me against the wall by the back door, a sweet homage to the previous night, and cupped my face in his hand. The look in his eyes when I tsk-tsked him was priceless, but I’m hoping my persuasion will pay off in the near future.

I take my turn and pull a ten, which puts me in the safe zone.

“Home sweet home,” I say.

“You still have three spots yet,” he says. “Which means you’ll need a one and a two. Good luck to you.”

Rolling my eyes, I square my shoulders and give him a fierce look despite the fact that I know he’s right. The odds are stacked against me now, especially since he just pulled a twelve and landed himself in his own personal safe zone. He needs a two. That’s it. And then he’ll win our little tournament and all my big talk earlier will have been for nothing.

I flip the next card. A seven. I can’t split it with any other pawns because they’re already home, so I stay put.

Ace flips another card. An eight, rendering his turn pointless.

My next card is a two, and I all but fly off the couch, I’m so happy. He reaches for the deck, but I swat his hand away.

“I get another turn, remember?” I remind him, rubbing my palms together. Closing my eyes, I press my prayered hands against my forehead.

“What are you doing?”

“Saying a prayer to the
SORRY!
gods,” I say, carefully opening my eyes.

“Pft.” He blows a breath through his lips and rests his elbows on his knees.

Reaching for my hopefully last and final card, I drag my fingertips across the top and flip it over slowly.

It’s a one.

I’ve won.

Victory and happiness settle in my chest as I slide my fourth pawn into the home spot. Wearing a smile I couldn’t wipe off if I tried, I climb into Ace’s lap, straddling him. I’m so happy I could kiss him.

So I do.

Completely disregarding my beard addendum earlier.

“If losing to you means you’ll finally kiss me again, then I’ll take it,” he says, his voice low and hungry as he slips his hands around my waist.

“I wasn’t thinking,” I say. “I still haven’t changed my mind. This is nothing more than a victory kiss.”

My mouth smiles against his.

“How does it feel to kiss a winner?” I tease.

“Feels like something I could get used to.”

A whistling and popping noise trails in from an open window nearby, directing our attention to the fireworks exploding over the lake.

I’d completely forgotten about fireworks this entire weekend. And who could blame me when there were fireworks going off in front of me the whole time?

“Want to watch?” I ask.

Ace bites his lip and hesitates, his hands gripping my hips and refusing to let go. “I’ve watched these fireworks a half dozen times.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but you’ve never watched them with me before.”

I climb off him, grabbing a blanket from nearby and bunching it in my arms. We head out the back door and down to the pier. He takes my hand as we cross the jagged rocks, and he holds onto it until we reach the end of the dock.

Spreading the blanket for us, we sit on the edge, our feet dangling in the warm water. Nearby, I spot my little bottle of organic bug spray. Reaching for it, I spray it all over and then offer it to him. He hesitates at first, and then takes it.

It’s not like it’ll do him a damn bit of difference anyway.

Pretty sure he’s going to get eaten up tonight regardless. Not by the mosquitos, but by me.

Lying back, I curl up in his arm and stare up at the spectacle in the sky.

“My favorite fireworks are the ones that start out one color and then change to another,” I say, my ear resting over the steady beat of his heart. “What about you?”

“I like them all,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I don’t think I could pick.”

“Come on, you have to have a favorite.”

“The red ones, I guess.”

“That’s boring. The red ones are just . . . red. They don’t do anything crazy like some of the other ones.”

“Judge much?”

“It’s just, you’re not even trying to have a favorite. You only said red just to say red.”

The sky lights up, the last firework turning it a dozen different colors all at once.

“Fine,” he says. “That one. I like that one. The one that’s every color.”

“And why do you like it?”

“Because it’s interesting. And unpredictable. And different from all the other fireworks.”

I smile, nuzzling my cheek into his chest. The show continues on, the fireworks whistling and popping and cracking and exploding above us, showering the night sky with color and light.

Ace rolls to his side, his blue-green stare holding mine, his hand on my hip. “I want to kiss you so fucking bad, Aidy.”

“I want to kiss you too.” I lift my brows, lips pursed. “But . . .”

He tries.

Oh, Lord, does he try.

But I stay firm in my conviction, pressing my palm against his chest and keeping a safe several inches between our mouths. My skin is finally starting to sting less, and I spent nearly a half hour color-correcting and concealing earlier. I’d like to return to the city tomorrow not looking like I just finished eating a cherry pie straight from the pie pan.

“Fuck it.” Ace stands, pulling me up.

Laughing, I ask, “What are you doing?”

He threads his hand in mine, leading me off the dock and over the rocks, back toward the house as the firework show begins to die down. Once we’re inside, he leads me to his room. I didn’t sleep in here last night because I wasn’t sure that’s what he wanted. He was so quiet after we had sex, and I didn’t want to be presumptive.

“Stay here.” Ace leads me to the foot of his bed and leaves the room.

Patiently, I wait.

I scan the room, looking at all his things and taking in my surroundings. His bed is definitely vintage, and so is the quilt that covers it. There’s a single signed baseball on the dresser, packaged in a small glass box, and a stack of books, mostly classics, rests on his nightstand.

The hiss and pop of the fireworks outside has dissipated to nothing, and I’m not sure how much time has passed, but none of that matters the second I hear his footsteps from the hallway.

Bracing myself, I watch the doorway, spotting his prelude in the form of a shadow.

When Ace finally appears, my jaw falls.

“Will you kiss me now?” He stands, hands hooked on his narrow hips, eyes flashing with palpable lust.

“Oh, sweet Jesus.” I’m breathless just looking at him.

His face is completely clean shaven, and I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time all over again, only he looks nothing like that incensed man who chased me down the sidewalk. Ace’s heavy stare is directed at me, his chest rising and falling as we stand here in limbo.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him if I tried.

And I don’t want to.

“Well?” he asks.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” I spring up, running to him. Slipping my arms around his neck, I practically crawl up his muscled body.

Ace’s hands cup my ass, and I graze my lips across his, reveling in the soft smoothness. He smells clean, like cologne and shaving cream and aftershave. I drag his scent into my lungs, kissing him harder, slipping my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

And as he carries me to his bed, our hands greedily tearing at our clothes, it occurs to me that I didn’t notice his scar.

In fact, I didn’t even see it.

I was too distracted by his beauty, by the handsome stranger standing before me, to even care.

Within seconds, I’m naked, lying dead center in the middle of his bed. There’s a warm slickness between my legs and I’m pulsing, physically aching for his touch. By the time he climbs over me, he’s rock hard and sheathed. My thighs tremble as they part for him, and he leans down, slipping a peaked nipple between his lips, sucking and flicking with his tongue.

His tongue may be my favorite feature of his.

That and his cock.

And his arms.

And his ass.

I drag my hand along his cheek, loving the soft feel beneath my palms. His face. His face is my favorite.

Ace looks up at me, his aqua gaze glowing in the dark.

I love his eyes too. Can’t forget about them.

He pulls his body over mine, holding himself up with one arm and gripping the base of his cock with his free hand. Teasing my clit with his hardness, I harbor a deep breath and then release it the second he pushes himself inside me.

It’s a sweet relief, but not nearly as sweet as the one to come.

Holding his body on top of mine, he glides in and out, slicked and aided by my arousal, and then he kisses me.

He kisses me a hundred times, our lips craving heat and tongues craving taste.

“Can we do this all night?” I sigh, my mouth still pressed against his.

His thrusts grow harder. “You read my mind.”

* * *

A
ce opens
a window when we’re done. The room is stuffy, and the cabin has no AC units in the bedrooms. When he returns, he yanks the covers off the bed and takes the spot beside me. We lie on top of crisp cotton sheets, the stickiness of our bodies evaporating into the summery night air.

He leans across me, his body sticking to mine, and flicks on the vintage fan on the nightstand next to my side of the bed. The cool breeze feels good for a while, but my body quickly adapts and fills with shivers.

“You cold?” he asks, extending his arm.

“Now I am,” I say, wasting no time curling up in that.

I press my cheek against his chest, listening to the calming sound his heart makes when it thrums, and exhale softly.

I’m not sure why, but I start to think about that journal again. And how hard that man loved the girl with the purple eyes. How she ruined him for anyone else. How he swore he’d never love anyone else half as much as he loved her.

Even lying here, in Ace’s arms, there’s a kind of inexplicable distance between us. Sure, the attraction is there. No denying that. And we have chemistry because apparently opposites really do attract.

But I want something deeper.

I crave more of him – a level of him I’m not sure he’s capable of giving because every part of me suspects that journal belongs to him.

And every part of me hopes, selfishly, that it doesn’t.

But it’s the only thing that makes sense.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask after a bout of silence.