Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  He flinches as if I slapped him.

  Like this was news to him. Like he didn’t know.

  How could he not know?

  “I can fix it,” he says, raising his voice over the drumming raindrops. “We can fix it.”

  No. I start to shake my head. At what point do we stop torturing ourselves? When is enough enough?

  Logan’s face tightens, his jaw flexing, and then he’s scooting across the short space between us in this mud pit we’ve somehow and ridiculously ended up in, stopping when he’s kneeling above me, invading my space.

  “Do you really think we’re not worth fighting for?” he asks as he bears down on me, seizing me by the arms and hauling me up onto my knees before him. “Or do you just need a reminder?”

  I try to jerk away from him, but he hardens his grip, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh. My heart jumps into my throat. His gaze is ablaze with his intentions, and panic flares in my chest.

  “Stop it.” Clenching my hands into fists, I punch his abdomen—not as hard as I can but enough that it should hurt. But without even the slightest wince, he lets go of my arms and clamps his hands on my wrists instead, jerking them up and pulling me closer in the same angry motion.

  “Fucking make me,” he snarls, and in a moment of sheer terror and desperation, I snarl right back at him, a shrill growl that erupts from my throat and leaves my mouth through my bared teeth. Every muscle in my body screams at me to lash out, to hurt and destroy and, ultimately, to escape.

  Because he’s demanding that I make him stop this.

  And I know that I don’t want him to.

  Keeping my wrists cinched, he yanks me closer, and then we’re nose to nose, his breath melding with mine—short, ragged, and so hot against my rain-chilled skin. Droplets from the sky run down my face, dripping into my eyes as I wait for him to escalate the assault on my senses. Time freezes, and my head spins and my nerve endings prickle with anticipation.

  After all this time, how will he feel? How will he taste? I’m aching at the memories of what we used to have, longing for the raw and intoxicating wanting that only he incites. If this isn’t as good as it used to be, I’ll die of disappointment. If it is, I’ll die for the opposite reason.

  “Paige, baby,” he murmurs, and then his lips are on mine, warm despite the raindrops that pool where our mouths meet. At once I’m washed away in a flood of sensation. I tense up, not moving and not breathing—the only way I can stop myself from drowning. With his hands locked around my wrists between us, he slants his head deeper, forcing my head back. And despite my frozen fear, my jaws separate, and I let him in.

  Because this kiss, it’s everything at once. Tender and demanding, hot and sweet, familiar and new. I remember this so well, can’t help responding to him, and oh, my God, to have his mouth on me again is both overwhelming and not enough.

  Don’t fuck him, Paige. Beth’s voice, like the ominous tolling of a bell in my head.

  I don’t care.

  Yes, I do.

  I start to pull away, twisting and tugging on my hands, but he doesn’t give an inch. The power in his grip and the unyielding pressure of his mouth on mine has my body betraying me. It’s pure muscle memory. Heart racing, I’m breathing shallow puffs through my nose, and a heavy and pulsing ache flares up between my thighs. My arousal is instant. If he tore off my clothes right now, he’d find me swollen and wet.

  This is what he does to me. It’s what he’s always done to me. And God help me, I still want him.

  Don’t fuck him, Paige.

  I’m cornered. I don’t know what to do.

  So I sink my teeth into his bottom lip. I’m not sure why—to stop him? or to fire him up more?—but when he grunts and rears back and I see the blood that wells up on his lip before being washed away by the rain, what twists through me is unmistakable. It’s the same old mixture of excitement and shame.

  And Logan smiles. Because of course he does. He knows now that the fight still turns me on, that the pain is still what precedes my pleasure.

  Letting himself fall back down to sit in the mud, he pulls me with him. He jerks me into his lap, and with gritted teeth, I twist and shove, trying to dig my elbows into his ribs. But he blocks me by forcing my arms down and around to my back, and all my squirming achieves is to push my thighs apart.

  So then I’m sitting there on top of him, straddling him, my hands as good as handcuffed behind me. I’m panting, my chest heaving as fury and lust fights a duel to the death inside me.

  “What the hell is your end game right now?” I snap at him, willing myself not to shy away from his piercing blue gaze.

  Tightening his arms, he pulls me flush up to his chest, and a finger’s breadth from my ear, he says, “You’re gonna admit you want me, too.”

  A scoff escapes me. “Fuck. You.”

  “Language, Good Girl.” I feel his smile against my cheek, and when I grind out another growl, he asks lightly, “What now? You gonna bite me again?”

  “You wish.”

  “I do.”

  Shit. Another flare of heat surges through me, and I can’t help it. Rolling my hips, I press myself down on him, my thighs squeezing his. Through our rain-and-mud-soaked clothes, I can feel him—rock hard and ready. I swallow a moan, need scorching my veins.

  Suddenly, he lets go of my wrists. It’s so unexpected that I just sit there stunned while he finds the hems of my jacket and the shirt, and then he’s slipping his hands in and under them. A shudder tears through me as his palms connect with my bare skin, a startling pressure that covers the small of my back, surprisingly dry and so warm the heat spreads through my entire torso.

  I suck in a breath as his mouth seeks my neck, close my eyes and try—and fail—not to succumb to the bliss that is the feel of his tongue and teeth on that sensitive skin. He knows exactly where to put his lips, knows just how to graze and nibble to turn me on. He knows every inch of me, what I want and what I need. Of course he does.

  And he probably knows that if it weren’t for our clothes, he’d already be inside me.

  As if a switch is flipped, zapping me into action, I bring my arms up. I don’t know what to do with them. Push him away? Hit him? Undress him?

  My hands tremble as they hover above him. This is terrifying. I gave up my right to touch this man, threw it away when I told him to leave. Now it’s like he’s surrounded by yellow tape that I put up, so what’ll happen if I break it? What will it mean? How will I find a way forward after such a huge leap backward?

  But the part of me that’s in control of my hands doesn’t care about questions. One of them touches the back of his rain-dampened neck, the other threading my fingers with the short strands of his soaked hair.

  Mine.

  He used to be mine.

  And he feels exactly the same. My fingertips recognize the texture of his skin and the muscles and veins bulging and pulsing underneath it, as if it’s been programmed into them, as if the sensation can never be erased.

  Is everything the same? Everything?

  I dig my nails into him, scrape them down his neck and scalp, scratching so roughly that I can sense the jolt that goes through him. His breath hissing out, he grips my thighs, and with his fingers digging in through the soggy fabric of my leggings, he pushes me down on the hard-on straining in his shorts, rubbing me on it. A gasp bursts out of me before I can stop it, and he pulls back to look up at me.

  “There you are,” he says softly, triumph and desire glittering in his eyes.

  Sobriety returns to me like ice water poured into my veins.

  No. I’m not doing this. Not now, not ever again.

  Jaws clenched, I put my hands on his shoulders and push away, scrambling gracelessly up and onto my feet.

  “Paige,” he barks. “God dammit.” He lurches forward, grasping for me, but I jump back and out of his reach. Then I turn and step into the creek, the water immediately soaking through my shoes and socks.

  “Just stay the
fuck away from me, Logan,” I say over my shoulder as I wade across. Then I leap out of the water and somehow manage to scramble up the muddy slope on the other side.

  Marching in the direction he pointed earlier, there’s no room anywhere within me for doubt that I can find my own way back.

  I don’t need him. If I have to conquer the wilderness on my own to show him that, so be it.

  Chapter 16

  Paige

  I spot my client at the far end of the bar, sitting at the counter with a drink in front of her. Noticing me, she raises her hand in greeting, and I start to make my way over to her. The room is as busy as the hotel is, filled with people in professional attire, which I’m assuming has something to do with the sign that was in the lobby the day I arrived, welcoming the attendees of some sort of medical conference—I forget which specialty.

  Caroline looks at ease, sitting there in her casual summer dress, sipping her drink. She could easily be the owner of the place, making sure it operates smoothly. Or a queen, surveying her domain.

  As I take a seat on the stool next to hers, she asks me my drink preference, and when I tell her a gin and tonic, she flags down the bartender and orders for me. While she banters and borderline flirts with the young and cute guy, I’m wondering again why she texted me a couple of hours ago to request this meeting. Need to talk, was all she wrote then, which struck me as ominous. There’s nothing in her face at the moment to give me any hints.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she finally says, flattening her lips. “I can’t believe I lost control like that. It’s infuriating that he knows exactly how to push my buttons.”

  “Trust me, I get it.” My stomach clenches as memories flash through my mind. Logan’s face, twisting with fury and determination. Saying we were not a mistake. That he wants me back.

  And then putting his hands on me.

  Feeling flushed, I clear my throat. “So does that mean the rest of your hike went okay?”

  She nods. “We made a deal the first day here: no discussing divorce issues without our attorneys. So yeah, it was fine.”

  “That’s good.” Too bad I can’t say the same for myself.

  At least I made it back to the cabin on my own. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in my room. Which I know makes me a coward, but that’s okay. If I thought there was any point to another confrontation with him, I’d suck it up and get it over with. Since there’s not, I accepted that I was being a wimp and moved on.

  After getting cleaned up, I had a couple of granola bars for lunch, and then I spent the rest of the day catching up on work. And the whole time I could hear him moving around the cabin, which meant I was bracing myself for a knock on the door…which never came.

  As soon as the front door shut, I ordered dinner from room service, and while I waited for that to show up, I Skyped with my kids again. Then Caroline’s message arrived, and I got busy getting myself ready to go out in public, throwing on the outfit I brought just in case I needed to dress up at some point on this vacation: a red floral lace bodycon dress with black strappy heels. It’s been a while since I’ve dressed to go out, and I know I look good right now. It feels great.

  “Do you have anything planned with him tomorrow?” I ask my client, because I’m tired of being blindsided by how much she’s socializing with her husband.

  “Negotiate the rest of the settlement in the morning, and then he’s rented a boat for us to go out on the lake the rest of the day.” After taking a drink from her cocktail, Caroline blows out a breath. “God, I feel so bad for dragging you out here, away from your family, for this, and then leaving you to yourself most of the time.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” The bartender places my glass in front of me, and I pause to smile and thank him before I continue to reassure her. “I never have problems staying occupied. And my family’s doing fine without me. I just Skyped with my kids, and the first thing they did was give me a long list of how everyone’s spoiling them.”

  The more I think about how this has played out, the more grateful I am for the timing of it. If I hadn’t been on vacation at my parents’ house, getting away would’ve been much tougher. My babysitting options would’ve been Mike or Miranda, and on such short notice, I’d be lucky to get either one to do it.

  “Good.” The older woman’s smile seems almost wistful, and not for the first time I wonder if she and Garnett are childless by choice. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of being rude enough to ask, and honestly, I'm counting my blessings. The thought of adding custody issues to this case makes me want to vomit. Bad enough I have that headache in my own life.

  “We have the cabins until Friday,” she tells me, swishing her straw around in her drink, “but if we wrap things up in the morning, then you can head out as soon as we’re done if you want.”

  Get out of here and away from Logan by tomorrow afternoon? Yes, please. “Okay,” I reply, trying hard not to sound too relieved. “I’ll probably do that.”

  My nonchalance must not have been convincing, because Caroline’s expression sharpens, measuring me. Hoping to evade further scrutiny, I lift my drink up to my lips and glance around the room. It’s like a typical scene of hotel bars everywhere: people at various stages of intoxication, pretending they’re here to unwind and make conversation, when what they’re really doing is trying to get laid.

  “How are you and Logan getting along?” my client asks, and somehow she makes it sound like an innocent inquiry, but I know better.

  “Fine. No problems.” I’m not stupid enough to think she’ll be fooled by my breezy tone, but what else can I say? It’s not like I’m going to start unloading my baggage on her. Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—that would be grossly unprofessional.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “I’d hate to think working—and living—with him was causing you stress.”

  “You definitely don’t need to worry about me.” Desperate to change the topic, I ask, “Was there anything specific you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “Yeah.” Caroline’s face tightens. “It’s something I should’ve told you sooner.”

  Uh-oh. My skin crawls with foreboding.

  “The reason I’m leaving Stu,” she tells me slowly, cagily, “is I’ve met someone else.”

  Say what? I’m blinking at her, unsure if I heard her correctly. She looks somewhat flustered, her color high and her eyes glittering, and I realize she did just say what I thought she did.

  “Wow. Okay.” I’m at a loss for words. I guess that explains why she’s in a hurry…kind of? But I don’t understand why she’s been hiding it from me. “Why the big secret? You know, California is a no-fault state. Infidelity can’t be held against you in a divorce.”

  “I know, and it’s not that.” She’s evading my gaze, which seems unlike her. “I guess Logan never told you Stu and I have an open marriage?”

  Whoa. My eyes widen before I can stop myself. Open marriage? As in, they sleep with other people…with permission?

  Holy crap. I always try not to be judgmental, but seriously. Their relationship gives me a stomach ache.

  Thankfully, by the time she seeks my gaze again, I’ve managed to contain my reaction. “No,” I answer. “If Stu told him that, it’d be privileged.”

  “Yeah. Trust me, I know how seriously you lawyers take that stuff.” She waves her hand in front of her face. “Anyway, we’ve had a polyamorous relationship since before we got married.”

  “So,” I say cautiously, hesitating, because this ground feels unfamiliar and filled with landmines, “wouldn’t that make him more understanding that you’ve found someone else?”

  “No.” Caroline shakes her head. “The opposite, actually. He wouldn’t take it seriously. If he knew, he wouldn’t be cooperating at all, because he’d be convinced that I’m just going through a phase. That I’ll get over it and come back to him eventually.” Tilting her drink glass and staring into it, unsmiling, she finishes with, “We’
ve both had so many other relationships, but it’s always been casual, and it’s always ended.”

  I arch my eyebrows. “This time is different for you, though?”

  She nods. “I realized I’ve never been in love before. Not really.”

  Our eyes lock, and my heart lurches at the anguish in the depths of hers. She actually doesn’t look like a woman in love. But then, she’s in the middle of a divorce, which doesn’t leave any room for simple, uncomplicated feelings like happiness and love.

  It’s clear she’s been lying to her husband, though. She does still care about him.

  She's just found someone else she cares about more.

  “So that’s why I want this wrapped up quickly, without Stu finding out,” she explains. “Or without anything leaking to the press.”

  Sure. That makes sense. I guess. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  The older woman gives me a sheepish half smile. “Because I’m embarrassed about what happened this morning, and I’m embarrassed about not trusting you with the truth.”

  “Okay.” I give her an assessing look, still feeling that something doesn’t add up. “And that’s everything you haven’t told me?”

  Her lips parting and her eyes shifting, she seems on the verge of saying something else, something I suspect is significant. But instead she shakes her head. “That’s all I wanted to talk about, yeah.”

  I’m frowning. She’s being evasive. It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that she didn’t exactly answer my question.

  “Anyway,” she says briskly, “I called Johanna just an hour ago, and I told her I couldn’t be happier with how you’re handling this.”

  Yeah, that’s definitely a deliberate change of topic. And it works, because my chest warms and swells.

  She asks me about my time as an intern for Johanna, and we chat about that for a while until she gets a phone call. After answering and telling the person she’ll call them back, she lets me know it’s her PA and that she needs to go take it in private, but I should feel free to stay—and make sure to put my drinks on her tab. After the requisite good-night-see-you-tomorrows, she walks out.