After We Fell

by Anna Todd

  From across the hall, I feel it. I feel the pull, the fucking magnetic charge, drawing me to Tessa and begging me to be at her side. Ignoring the overwhelming electricity, I climb out of the bed and change into the clean black shorts that Tessa has folded and placed on the dresser. I know Vance has a gym in this massive house somewhere. I need to find it before I lose what’s left of my fucking mind.

  chapter ninety-four

  TESSA

  I can’t sleep. I’ve tried to close my eyes and block out the world, leave the chaos and stress of the mess that is my love life, but I can’t. It’s impossible. It’s impossible to fight the irresistible power that draws me to Hardin’s room, that begs me to be near him. He’s being so distant, and I have to know why. I have to know if he’s behaving this way because of something I did, or because of something I didn’t do. I have to know that it had nothing to do with Sasha and her tiny gold dress, or Hardin losing interest in me.

  I have to know.

  Hesitantly, I climb out of the bed and tug on the small cord to bring the lamp to life. I pull the thin band from around my wrist and gather my hair into my hands, pulling it into a ponytail. As quietly as possible, I tiptoe across the hall and slowly turn the handle on the guest room door. It opens with a low creak, and I’m surprised to find the lamp on and the bed empty. A pile of black sheets and blankets are pushed against the edge of the bed, but Hardin isn’t in the room.

  My heart sinks at the thought that he’s left Seattle and gone back home—to his home. I know things were awkward between us, but we should be able to talk about whatever it happens to be that is weighing on Hardin’s mind. Scanning the room, I’m relieved to see his bag still on the floor, the piles of clean and folded clothes knocked over, but at least still there.

  I’ve loved seeing the changes in Hardin since his arrival only hours ago. He’s been sweeter, calmer, and he actually apologized to me without me having to pull the words from him. Regardless of the fact that he’s being cold and distant right now, I can’t ignore the changes that a week apart seems to have made and the positive impact that the distance between us has had on him.

  I quietly pad down the hallway in search of him. The house is dark, the only light coming from small night-lights lined along the floor of the halls. The bathrooms, living room, and kitchen are empty, and I don’t hear a single noise coming from upstairs. He has to be upstairs, though . . . maybe he’s in the library?

  I keep my fingers crossed that I don’t wake anyone during my search, and just as I close the door to the dark and empty library, I see a thin line of light creeping from the door at the end of the long corridor. During my brief stay here, I haven’t made it to this part of the house, though I think Kimberly had vaguely indicated that this is where the theater and the gym are. Apparently, Christian spends hours in the gym.

  The door is unlocked, and I push it open with ease. I feel a momentary spark of worry as I entertain the idea that it’s Christian, not Hardin, who’s in the room. That would be incredibly awkward, and I pray it isn’t the case.

  All four walls of the room are mirrored from floor to ceiling and lined with large, intimidating machines, a treadmill being the only recognizable one. Weights and more weights cover the far wall, and most of the floor is padded. My eyes move to the mirrored walls, and my insides liquefy at the sight of them. Hardin—four Hardins, actually—are reflected in the mirrors. He’s shirtless, and his movements are aggressively quick. His hands are wrapped in the same black tape that I’ve seen on Christian’s each day this week.

  Hardin’s back is to me, his hard muscles straining under pale skin as he lifts his foot to kick the large black bag hanging from the ceiling. His fist strikes out next; a loud thud follows his movement, and he repeats it with the other fist. I watch as he continues to punch and kick the bag; he looks so angry, and hot, and sweaty, and I can barely think straight as I watch him.

  With swift movements, he hits with his left leg, then his right, and then both fists smash into the bag with such fluidity, it’s incredible to watch. His skin is shining and covered in sweat, and his chest and stomach look slightly different than before, more defined. He simply looks . . . larger. The metal chain attached to the ceiling looks like it’s going to snap from the force of Hardin’s aggression. My mouth is dry, and my thoughts are sluggish as I watch him and listen to the angry groans that escape as he begins using only his fists against the bag.

  I don’t know if it’s the soft moan that falls from my lips at watching him, or if he somehow felt my presence, but he suddenly stops. The bag continues to sway on its chain, and while keeping his eyes on me, Hardin reaches out one hand to stop it.

  I don’t want to be the first to speak, but he gives me no choice as he continues to stare at me with wide and angry eyes.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice hoarse and tiny.

  His chest rises and falls rapidly. “Hi,” he says, panting.

  “What, um”—I try to contain myself—“what are you doing?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he breathes heavily. “What’re you doing up?” He gathers his black T-shirt from the floor and wipes the moisture from his face. I gulp. I can’t seem to find the strength to look away from his sweat-soaked body.

  “Um, same as you. Couldn’t sleep.” I smile weakly, and my eyes flicker to his toned torso, the muscles moving in sync with his hard breaths.

  He nods; his eyes don’t meet mine, and I can’t help but ask, “Did I do something? If I did, we could just talk about it and work it out.”

  “No, you didn’t do anything.”

  “Then tell me what’s wrong, please, Hardin. I need to know what’s going on.” I gather as much confidence as I can manage. “Do you . . . never mind.” The ounce of confidence I had slips away under his stare.

  “Do I what?” He sits down on a long black cushion, which I think is some sort of weight bench. After wiping the T-shirt over his face again, he wraps it around his head, restraining his dampened mess of hair.

  The impromptu headband is oddly endearing and very attractive, so much so that I find myself fumbling for words. “I’m just beginning to wonder if maybe, possibly, you . . . you’re starting to not like me as much as you did.” The question sounded much better inside of my head. When said out loud, it sounds pathetic and needy.

  “What?” He drops his hands onto his knees. “What are you talking about?”

  “Are you still as attracted to me . . . physically?” I ask. I wouldn’t feel so ashamed or insecure if he hadn’t rejected me earlier tonight. That, and if Ms. Long Legs Short Dress hadn’t been fawning over him right in front of me. Not to mention the way his eyes lingered as they slowly took in her body . . .

  “What . . . where is this coming from?” As his chest rises and falls, the sparrows inked just under his collarbone appear to be fluttering along with his breathing.

  “Well . . .” Although I take a few steps farther into the room, I make sure to leave a few feet between Hardin and me. “Earlier . . . when we were kissing . . . you stopped, and you’ve barely touched me since, and then you just up and went to bed.”

  “You actually think that I’m not attracted to you anymore?” He opens his mouth to continue but suddenly closes it again and sits silently.

  “It has crossed my mind,” I admit. The padded flooring has suddenly become fascinating as I stare down at it.

  “That is fucking insane,” he begins. “Look at me.” My eyes meet his, and he sighs deeply before continuing. “I can’t begin to fathom why you would ever consider the notion that I’m not attracted to you, Tessa.” He seems to think over his response and adds, “Well, I guess I can see why you would think that because of how I acted earlier, but it’s not true; that literally could not be further from the fucking truth.”

  The ache in my chest slowly begins to dissolve. “Then what is it?”

  “You’re going to think I’m fucking morbid.”

  Oh no.

  “Why? Tell me, please,” I beg
him. I watch as frustrated fingers run over the slight stubble on his chin; it’s barely there, probably only a day’s worth of not shaving.

  “Just hear me out before you get mad, okay?”

  I nod slowly, an action that completely contradicts the paranoid thoughts that are beginning to flutter through me.

  “I had this dream, well, nightmare, actually . . .”

  My chest tightens, and I pray that it’s not as bad as he’s making it out to be. Half of me is relieved that he’s upset over a nightmare, not an actual event, but the other half aches for him. He’s been alone all week, and it hurts to know that his nightmares have returned.

  “Go on,” I gently encourage him.

  “About you . . . and Zed.”

  Oh boy. “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “He was at our—my—apartment, and I came home to find him in between your legs. You were moaning his name and—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” I say, raising a hand to stop him.

  The pained expression on his face compels me to keep my hand up for a few seconds to keep him silent, but then he says, “No, let me tell you.”

  I’m extremely uncomfortable about having to listen to Hardin talk about Zed and me in bed, but if he feels like he needs to tell me—if telling me will help him work it out—I’ll bite my tongue and listen.

  “He was on top of you, fucking you, in our bed. You said that you loved him.” He grimaces.

  All of this tension and all of Hardin’s strange and awkward behavior since he came to Seattle stemmed from a dream he had about me and Zed? At least this helps explain his middle-of-the-night demand last night that I call Zed and take back the invitation to visit me in Seattle that I agreed to.

  As I stare across the room at the green-eyed, grief-stricken man with his face resting on his hands, my earlier paranoia and frustration dissolve like sugar on my tongue.

  chapter ninety-five

  HARDIN

  When my name escapes her lips, it comes out on a breath, soft, her tongue caressing the word. As if in saying that one word she’s summed up all of her feelings for me, all of the times I’ve touched her, all of the times she’s proved that she loves me—even if part of me still can’t believe it.

  Tessa walks closer, and I can see the sympathetic look in her eyes. “Why didn’t you just tell me earlier?” she asks.

  I look down and pick at the thick tape wrapped around my hands.

  “It was only a dream. You know something like that would never actually happen,” she says.

  When I look up at her, the pressure in my eyes, in my chest, is unrelenting. “It’s stuck in my head—I can’t stop it from replaying it. He was fucking taunting me the entire time, smirking as he fucked you.”

  Tessa’s small hands quickly move to cover her ears, and she crinkles her nose in displeasure. Then, looking up at me, she drops her arms slowly. “Why do you think you had that dream?”

  “I don’t know, probably because you agreed to let him visit you here.”

  “I didn’t know what else to say, and we were . . . well, we still are, in that weird place,” she mutters.

  “I don’t want him near you. I know it’s fucked up, but I don’t give a shit. Honestly, Zed is the line for me; it will always be that way. No amount of kickboxing will change that. Weird place or not, you are only for me. Not just sexually, but entirely. I can’t stand you being in any sort of emotional relationship with that guy.”

  “He hasn’t been near me since he took me to my mother’s house . . . that night,” she reminds me.

  But the panic burning inside of me doesn’t budge. I look down, breathe in and out deeply to try to calm myself down a little.

  “But”—she takes a step closer, though she remains just out of reach—“if it will make you stop thinking these things, I’ll tell him not to visit.”

  My eyes dart to her beautiful face. “You will?” I expected more of a fight from her.

  “Yes, I will. I don’t want it weighing on you like this.” With nervous eyes, she looks down at my chest and back up to my face.

  “Come here.” I lift one bandaged hand to beckon her.

  Because her feet are moving too slowly, I lean up and grab hold of her arm, wrapping my hand around her elbow to bring her to me more quickly.

  My breathing has yet to return to normal. I have all this adrenaline rushing through my body. I couldn’t help but beat the shit out of that damn bag, but my hands and feet are aching—I still haven’t released all of my anger. There’s something inside my head, just sitting in the back of my mind, nagging at me, not allowing me to release my grudge against Zed.

  That is, until her lips are on mine. She surprises me by pushing her tongue into my mouth and wrapping her small hands into my sweat-soaked hair, tugging hard, pulling the rolled-up T-shirt from around my head and tossing it onto the floor.

  “Tessa . . .” I gently push against her chest and remove my mouth from hers. As I sit down on the weight bench, I see her eyes narrow at me.

  She doesn’t speak as she moves to stand in front of me. “I won’t put up with you rejecting me because of a dream, Hardin. If you don’t want me, then that’s fine, but this is bullshit,” she says through her teeth.

  As twisted as it is, her anger stirs something inside of me, causing my blood to flow straight to my dick. I’ve wanted this woman since the last time I was inside of her, and now here she is, wanting me—and getting frustrated that I’m stopping her from taking what she wants.

  Hearing her come over the phone would never be good enough; I need to feel it.

  A war is being fought within me. With the wild energy still pumping through my veins like fire, I finally say, “I can’t help it, Tessa, I know it doesn’t make sense—”

  “Fuck me, then,” she says, and my mouth falls open. “You should just fuck me until you forget about that dream, because you’re here for one night, and I’ve missed you, but you’re too stuck on imagining me with Zed to even give me the attention that I want.”

  “The attention that you want?” I can’t help the harshness of my tone as I hear her ridiculous and untrue words. She has no idea how many times I’ve fucked my own hand, pretending it was her, imagining her voice in my ear telling me how much she needs me, how much she loves me.

  “Yes, Hardin. That. I. Want.”

  “What is it exactly that you want?” I ask her. Her gaze is hard and slightly unnerving.

  “I want you to spend time with me without obsessing over Zed, I want you to touch me and kiss me without pulling away. That, Hardin, is what I want.” She scowls and places her hands on her hips. “I want you to touch me—only you,” she adds, relaxing her stance by a fraction.

  Her words, reassuring and flattering, begin to push the paranoid thoughts from my mind, and I begin to to realize just how stupid this whole ordeal we’re going through really is. She’s mine, not his. He’s sitting alone somewhere, and I’m here with her—and she wants me. I can’t keep my eyes off her pouty lips, her angry glare, the soft curve of her tits just under the thin white T-shirt. The T-shirt that should be, but isn’t, one of mine. Which is another result of my stubbornness.

  Tessa closes the remaining distance between us, and my somewhat shy—yet very fucking dirty—girl is looking at me, expecting a reply as her hand moves to my shoulder and pushes me back just enough for her to climb onto my lap.

  Fuck this. I don’t give a shit about some stupid fucking dream or our stupid fucking rule about distance. All I want is her and me, me and her: Tessa and the mess that is fucking Hardin.

  Her lips find their way to my neck, and my fingertips press into her hips. No matter how many times I imagined it throughout the week, no fantasy will ever compare to her tongue skimming across my damp collarbone and up to that fucking spot just under my ear.

  “Lock the door,” I instruct as her teeth softly sink into my skin and she grinds her hips down against me. I’m rock fucking hard against her ridiculous fluffy fucking p
ants, and I need her now.

  I ignore the aching throb between my legs as she climbs off me and hurries across the room to do as I said. I don’t waste a goddamn second when she returns. Her pants are pushed down her thighs, and her black panties follow, pooling around her ankles on the padded floor.

  “I’ve been tortured all week, thinking about how you look when you’re like this,” I groan, my eyes drinking in every fucking detail of her half-naked body. “So beautiful,” I say with awe.

  When she pulls her T-shirt over her head, I can’t help but lean forward and kiss the curve of her wide hips. A slow shiver rakes through her, and she reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra.

  Holy fuck. Out of all the times I have made love to her, I can’t remember ever feeling this feverish. Even the times when she woke me up by wrapping her mouth around my cock, I never felt this fucking animalistic.

  I reach for her, taking one of her breasts into my mouth and one in my hand. Her hands move to my shoulders to keep her steady as I pucker my lips around her soft skin.

  “Oh God,” she moans, her nails digging into my shoulder, and I suck harder. “Lower, please.”

  She attempts to guide my head down with a gentle push, so I use my teeth against her, to tease her. I run my fingertips along the underside of both of her breasts, slow and torturous . . . this is what she gets for being so fucking tempting and teasing.

  Her hips move forward, and I slide my body down slightly so that my mouth is at the perfect height to press against the swollen bud of nerve endings between her thighs. With a soft moan, she encourages me to go further, and my lips wrap around her, sucking and savoring the wetness already gathered there. She’s so warm and so fucking sweet.

  “Your fingers haven’t quite satisfied you, have they?” I pull away to ask her. She breathes a deep breath, her blue-gray eyes watching me as I tilt my head and run my tongue along her pubic bone.