by Gina Azzi
I close my eyes and rest my head on her shoulder, letting my weakness mix with her strength. I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve her.
She tugs me from the barstool and I sink in her arms to the floor of my kitchen. Vulnerability flares to life, making my limbs lock down and my head spin. A million barbs rest on my tongue, ready to shatter Claire’s peace offering, to push her away.
I force myself to swallow them back when she says, “I got you, East. I’m here, baby.”
My eyes drag closed, heavy. So fucking heavy from so many burdens for so damn long. I clutch at Claire’s skin, holding her close and erasing all the space between us. My fingers wrap in her long hair, knotting the strands around my knuckles. I breathe her in, let her sweet floral scent center me.
I have no idea how long we sit in a heap on the kitchen floor. The room grows cold, my anger dies, and exhaustion rolls through me. She guides my face up, forcing my bleary eyes to meet her compassionate ones.
She offers me the smallest of smiles, the greatest of understanding, and presses her lips to mine.
It’s my undoing.
22
Claire
The torture in Easton’s eyes breaks my heart. The vulnerability he lets me see is humbling, sobering me faster than a week of sleep and a gallon of coffee. In this moment, I’m right where I want to be, in his arms.
Nothing has changed. We haven’t discussed any of the hurt that led to his leaving. We haven’t acknowledged the massive elephant that should be sucking all the oxygen from the room. We have hashed out nothing, agreed to nothing, have absolutely nothing concrete between us. And yet, I’m exactly where I want to be.
The moment my lips touch Easton’s, I’m home. I don’t know if I’m holding him or if he’s clinging to me. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except we’re together and it feels right.
The cold tiles bite into my bare knees but I ignore them. My hips ache from holding the same position for so long but it doesn’t matter. Easton’s skin is hot beneath my touch. His scent soothes the racing of my heart. His mouth on mine is perfection.
I dip my tongue into Easton’s mouth and he meets mine eagerly, our slow, hesitant touches morphing into a need tinged with desperation. His hands move to my hips and he tugs until his frame is looming over mine, covering me. He kisses me deeply, with so much intensity and passion, that I’m dragged under his spell.
His eyes are filled with longing, edged in wild, and colored with gratitude.
“I need you, Claire.” His voice is ragged, husky with want, laced with hurt.
“I’m yours,” I tell him, my fingers brushing back his hair. “I’ve always been yours.”
At the catch in my voice, something in him breaks. I see the emotion as it blooms in his expression, beautiful and fleeting, like the bang of a firework. His breathing is unsteady as he dips his head again. He kisses me slowly. Soulfully.
His hands explore my body with a heaviness that wasn’t there a week ago. It’s different now. Thorough and fierce. His touch brands me, a subtle reminder that no man will ever know my body as intimately as he does.
His mouth travels across my cheek, nips on my earlobe, and makes a slow descent down my neck. I arch into him, my hips searching for his. The pressure building inside of me is throbbing and needy. I want him to simultaneously devour and savor me.
His fingers brush against the undersides of my breasts, caressing and teasing.
My hands track his back, pulling his shirt clear off his head so I can press my fingertips into his skin. He unzips my dress and I shimmy out of it. Easton’s eyes drink me in like he’s never seen a topless woman before and his lips part. I work a swallow, feeling more exposed than I ever have and yet, surer than I’ve ever been.
Easton’s eyes hold mine as he reaches forward and gently runs the pad of his thumb over my nipple. I inhale sharply as his other fingers brush against me. “You’re beautiful, Claire. You’re everything, baby. My angel.” His voice is low, soothing in its cadence, tense in his need for me to understand.
“I’m in love with you, Easton.” I blurt out the words, needing him to know just how deep my feelings are, how much I care. More than I ever thought I was capable of and yet, not enough.
His brows furrow together and pain blooms in his expression. “Why?” he whispers and the disbelief in his tone guts me.
I reach up and place my hand over his, pressing his palm flat over my heart. “Because it’s always been you.”
His eyes swim with moisture and surprise rocks through me. I’ve never seen Easton so unguarded before. I’ve never witnessed him like this, vulnerable and open. I fall a little deeper.
He wets his bottom lip and tips forward, brushing a soft kiss against my mouth. “Let me make love to you, Claire.”
“Yes,” I agree, my eyes fluttering closed as his weight settles over me.
But in the next instant, I’m being lifted. Easton cradles me in his arms like I’m his most prized possession. He takes the stairs slowly and leads us into his bedroom. He deposits me in the center of his bed like I may shatter. It’s a far cry from how he usually tosses me but everything about tonight is different. More.
It’s like we’re both shedding the layers we wrap ourselves in to shield us from the world. We’re peeling them back and exposing ourselves to the only other person who understands. To each other.
Easton sheds his pants and boxers. My tongue darts over my bottom lip as my gaze falls to his cock. He’s so hard for me and knowing that he feels that way about me causes a rush of heat to flood between my legs. He shakes his head, the smallest smirk glancing off his lips.
“Not yet, baby. I promise we’ll get there. But tonight, I want to worship you.” He moves over me, settling between my thighs. He kisses the side of my neck. “You saved me, Claire.” His mouth finds mine, his hands track up my body, and my eyes drop closed.
I reach for him but Easton’s hand covers mine, surprising me. “Let’s not rush this,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over my body like a caress.
While I anticipated our coming together for the first time in a week to be frantic and needy, he slows the pace and takes his time, savoring each moment.
One of his hands holds on to my wrists while the other slides down my arm, hooking around my neck. He pulls back and peers into my eyes.
“I’m sorry for everything, Claire.”
“Me too, East.”
“Let me love you, baby,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down my neck before claiming my mouth again.
My thighs clench at the promise behind his words. His fingers knead the back of my neck and I melt into him.
Easton kisses me passionately as his hand roams down the side of my body, wrapping around me. He holds me close, erasing any space between us.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Claire,” East whispers in my ear before moving down my body. He pulls my breast into his mouth and I arch into him, my fingers threading through his hair.
I want everything Easton is willing to give. And then some.
At the moan that falls from my lips, Easton switches gears. He shadows my body with his and pushes inside of me with a slowness that is agonizing. His eyes bore into mine and all of the feelings swirling in them soothe any of my lingering doubts. Easton fills me up and for the first time in a week, I feel like I can breathe again. Our bodies find a rhythm that is ancient yet completely new to me.
“You’re so wet for me, Claire,” Easton groans.
I close my eyes as pressure builds low in my belly. Easton’s lips streak, featherlight, across my cheek, nipping at my ear. My hands clench his back, pulling him deeper into me, as my hips pivot up to meet his.
“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs, trailing kisses up my throat until his mouth captures mine.
I don’t know how long we spend kissing and touching. Feeling and exploring. Giving and exchanging. I just know that when we break apart, we’re lost in each other’s eyes and my heart feels ready to burst. When
I come down from the blissful high Easton created, my entire life looks different. The world is different.
With Easton’s chest pressed against my back and his arms holding me tight, I feel whole. For the first time, I feel like I’m enough. For me. For him. For my future.
I snuggle deeper in his embrace. My body is spent and sated. Easton made me feel so many things at once that I stopped thinking and just lost myself to the moment. The most beautiful moment of my existence.
My eyelids are heavy with sleep and I relax, my body sagging and my mind quieting. Just before sleep takes me, I feel Easton’s breath on the shell of my ear.
“I love you, Claire.”
I fall asleep with a smile on my lips.
When I wake in the morning, pale gray light wraps around the room. My head throbs and I’m unsure if it’s from the shots I did with Rielle, the emotional overload of what happened with Easton, or a combination of both. Other than a dull headache, I don’t feel too hungover. I turn slowly, smiling when I see the smirk on Easton’s face.
“Good morning, Clairebear. How do you feel?”
“Not as bad as I thought.”
He frowns but then snorts. “How much did you drink?”
“Rielle has a thing for shots.”
“So does Torsten. He said he saw you last night?” Easton pulls me closer to his chest.
I nod, pressing my hands against his hard pecs. “He backed Aiden up in cutting us off,” I admit, laughing. “Big Daddy was not happy that I was nearly sobbing at the bar.”
Easton’s frown is back, his eyes flashing. “Why were you sobbing?”
I lift an eyebrow and apply more pressure to his chest. “Isn’t it obvious?”
He sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. I have a lot of apologizing to do.”
I shake my head. “I’m glad I came home when I did…”
He catches my meaning and nods, his eyes darkening. “Me too. I need to hit up a meeting today. Talk to Rick. All of this”—he presses his hand flat against the center of my back—“it’s a lot of emotions. Highs and lows. I’m not good at navigating them. I usually handled them by drinking my face off.”
“We need to do better, East.”
“I know. I need to do better.”
“You can talk to me, you know?” I say softly, not wanting to push anything but also desperately wanting him to confide in me about real things. His childhood. His past. His triggers. All of it.
He’s quiet for a long moment and I hold my breath.
“Noah and I didn’t have the best childhood,” he says softly.
I glance up at him but keep very still otherwise.
His fingers toy with the ends of my hair. “My mom was too much under my dad’s influence, too scared to step up to him. Every year she wilted a little more, let her light die under his darkness, until there wasn’t much left. I don’t blame her as much. She’s weak. But my father”—he pauses, glancing at the ceiling—“my father is a cruel, twisted son of a bitch.”
I draw in a breath. I’ve never heard Easton speak about anyone with such venom in his tone.
“He used to make me stand in the backyard, after everyone else went to bed. He’d put me in the net, even when it was below freezing outside, and shoot beer bottles at my head with a hockey stick.” He rubs absently at his forehead and I don’t miss the way his thumb rolls over the scar he has there.
My stomach knots, making me feel nauseous. Did his father give him that scar? Was Easton hit as a child? I don’t say anything for fear that he’ll stop talking.
“My entire life, I’ve been compared to Noah. Not by Noah, of course. My brother is the only good person I knew until I met yours.” He offers me a half smile. “The first time I had dinner at your parents’ house, I was petrified I’d do something wrong and we would never be invited back. Your mom was like one of the moms I’d see on TV. I thought it was fake, you know? But then I met your family and God, Claire, I wanted to be part of something like that so badly. And then you guys gave me a chance.” He pauses and I inch closer to him, somehow knowing he needs my support for whatever is coming next.
“I screwed up, Claire. I have ruined so many good things and I am tired of being a failure.”
“You’re not a failure.”
He shakes his head, tugging on my hair so I meet his gaze. “Why do you always stick up for me? I have pushed you and your family away countless times. I’ve made my brother feel guilty anytime he starts to move on with his life because he doesn’t want to leave me behind. He shouldn’t have to carry that around. I have pushed away everyone who has helped me, who cares about me, including you.”
“You’re not a failure,” I repeat. “You’re in recovery. You’re learning and growing and evolving. You’re doing your best and I’m proud of you.”
He shakes his head, his eyes sad. “I don’t deserve you, Claire.”
“You already have me, East.”
“Promise you won’t go?” he murmurs, his tone fragile. Child-like.
He breaks my heart and fills my soul at the same time. I press a kiss to the base of his throat. “I promise, Easton. We’re in this together. You don’t realize how much your support has helped me grow too. You don’t see how much good you create in my life. This isn’t one-sided. We’re a team.”
“I won’t ever let you give up on your dreams, Claire.”
“I know that.”
“For this to work, we have to be honest with each other, upfront about things. It’s too easy for me to keep everything locked down and push people, you, away. It’s my default. But I swear, I will walk away before I ever hurt you.” His voice drops lower, fear flaring in his eyes. “I am not my father.”
My chest squeezes painfully. I reach up and place my palm on his cheek. He lowers his face to press a kiss against my lips. “No, you’re not. You’re mine.”
23
Easton
I’m rattled. Some may call it circling the drain but after so many close calls, I’m not there yet. Almost but not yet.
I breathe in the cold air of the arena and let it wash over me. Closing my eyes, I focus on the sounds of the space, more familiar to me than anywhere else in the world. The sharp cut of skates on the ice. The near silence of 5 a.m., only permeated by a love of the sport, that settles in my bones. The random chatter of men already at work, cleaning and maintaining, supporting and overseeing.
I force my eyes open. I take in the bleachers and the boards. The flags and the jerseys. The ice.
My fingers twitch in my gloves as I step onto the smooth ice and push off. Two of the guys from the team are here this morning, but we all give each other ample space. Coach Phillips schedules ice time an hour earlier on Fridays in case anyone wants to get in extra time.
We all know he does it for the mental reprieve it provides. We all take advantage of it when needed.
I settle into an easy skate, warming up slowly.
Nearly a week ago, I stared down a vodka bottle, collapsed in Claire’s arms, and promised I’d never hurt her. Already, those promises feel like a noose around my neck. How could I not hurt her?
Every morning, when I leave for practice, she kisses me goodbye and smiles at me like I’m the greatest man she knows. Like I’ve done something important, saved the polar bears or invented time travel. She cooks dinner each night, keeps our place immaculate, and doesn’t complain when my hockey gear stinks up the laundry room.
On Sunday, over waffles and coffee, we had a tough conversation. One that centered on our need to do a better job communicating, being honest, trusting each other. It’s always been hard for me to talk about my feelings; I hate feeling vulnerable. But with Claire, it’s another risk I’m willing to take.
Things with Claire move at warp speed. Within a handful of days, she’s settled back in, as if last weekend didn’t even happen. But I’m still struggling to process everything, to fully trust this new level of our relationship. As usual, my mental state is dragging behind my physical wants
and emotional hopes.
And then, there’s dad.
A lump swells in my throat, a bundle of nerves and guilt and…fear.
I grab my stick and a puck and begin a series of stick-handling drills. My mind churns relentlessly but some of my anxiety recedes with a stick in hand.
Three nights ago, Dad called me. When his name appeared on the screen of my phone, my breath froze in my throat and my fingers trembled. Was it Mom? Was there an accident? But the moment I answered and heard his voice, I knew he was drunk. Three sheets to the wind, slurring and swearing. Angry and bitter and jaded.
I clutched the phone tightly and thanked Jesus that Claire was at Rielle’s apartment to pick her brain about some marketing ideas.
“You gonna say something?” Dad asked me.
“Are you okay?” I asked slowly.
He guffawed, then hiccupped. “You’re just like me, you know.”
I bit down so hard, I drew blood, and copper filled my mouth. Like chewing a penny.
“Don’t like the truth in that, do ya boy?” Dad asked but it wasn’t a question. I fought to control my breathing, to swallow against the anger and ache in my throat.
He laughed, sharp-like. “Who is she?”
“What?” I hissed.
“The woman? You got your priorities fucked up. Your head is all over the place.”
“How the hell do you know that? You haven’t seen me in over a year.”
“Watched your last two games.”
At the knowing in his tone, panic rocked through me. Does Dad know it’s Claire?
Then, anger. Who does he think he is calling to talk about my play?
Then, insecurity. I played well. Even Coach said so. But could I have been better? Is my head all over the place? Am I not locked in?
Then, anger again. This time, at myself. Why am I letting him get to me? I know he plays head games. So why do I feed into them?