Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  Moving off him was kind of pointless, though. Because we’re in a damn hammock, and no matter how much I try to roll away from him, it makes no difference. I’m plastered up against my almost-ex-husband’s body, and there’s no way to create space between us that’d let me breathe easier. So I give up, sagging into him, my head on his arm, which he then curls around me, hugging me closer.

  He’s so warm.

  So familiar.

  So…substantial.

  I’m in so much trouble.

  “So,” he says, and I grit my teeth at the smugness in his voice. “Clients.”

  I blow out a sigh. Seriously, I still hate this game.

  “People who pay me to help them? Helping is satisfying.” Lips twisting, I add, “Sometimes they’re nuts, and they hit you in the face with a cutting board.”

  He snorts, and I can feel his ribs expanding. “And then your husband has to restrain himself from knocking said client across the room.”

  “Aww.” I bend my neck back to look up at him, though of course I’m too close to see anything but his scruffy chin, his impeccable jawline. “You were willing to hit a girl for me?”

  “Shush.” He moves his hand down to poke a finger in my ribs, and I flinch and can’t help the tiny squeak that escapes. “Your turn.”

  I’m sighing. This is actually the part I hate. My mind scrambles for a word. Eventually, still stuck on the topic of our clients, I tell him, “Polyamory.”

  “What?” he says incredulously, and then he groans. “Right. Insane clients. And something I’d personally never agree to.”

  No shit. My heart starts pounding, and a familiar tension winds through me, a shadow of the anguish I used to feel every time he made his groundless suspicions obvious. The questions that felt like he was interrogating an opposition witness on the stand. That piercing way he’d look at me, like he was hunting for signs that I was lying. How he always talked to me with an underlying coldness, leaving me in a tug-of-war between burning anger at his lack of trust in me and a helpless, overwhelming misery at the injustice of it all.

  Why did I pick that word? So dumb.

  Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way, though.

  “Tsk,” I comment with a playfulness that feels forced. “Such a typical, spoiled only child. Don’t know how to share.”

  “Yup,” he agrees, unapologetic. “What I wanted to do to Caroline is nothing to what I would’ve done to that guy last night. If he hadn’t been such a pussy, that is.”

  I want to roll my eyes at his judgment of Graham, because whatever. But I’m too distracted, too bewildered. We’re discussing infidelity like it’s any other topic that we can just talk about, tossing opinions back and forth without repercussions. How is that possible? My shoulders sag, my muscles unwinding, though my pulse is still racing. Because this, this isn’t normal. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or on guard.

  “Okay,” Logan says, inhaling and hesitating. “Happiness.”

  “Um.” I’m blinking, still hating this game when, suddenly, a memory crystallizes. “It makes me think of a weekend morning. Abi was four or five months old, I think. Her crib was in our room still.” Because studies had come out showing it was safest for infants to co-sleep, and because I thought if I did things differently this time, having a baby wouldn’t be so awful. “It’s early, and I just nursed her, sitting in bed. She was lying between us, and she was so happy, cooing and smiling at us.”

  Logan’s arm tightens around me, and I close my eyes as I continue. “Then Freya woke up and came in. She climbed into bed with us and started playing peek-a-boo with Abi. They were both giggling so hard.”

  He’s silent for a while. “Why that memory?”

  I open my mouth, pausing to straighten my thoughts, measuring my words. “Because even though nothing at that point was going according to my plans, it just hit me that I was okay with it. I realized I was okay and I was happy.”

  This time his silence stretches longer, and when he speaks, his voice is soft. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  Sorry for what exactly? I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, leaving me to fill in the blanks. He’s sorry I ever felt unhappy? Sorry I felt like my life had derailed? Sorry for everything that was difficult, everything he couldn’t fix?

  Is he sorry about how he pushed me away?

  “Shame.” The words tumbles out of my mouth, surprising me. Guess it just seemed fitting.

  I can feel his body going rigid. His breathing sounds labored, almost distressed, and for every second that passes, my dread grows. What is it? What is he ashamed of, so much that he has a hard time sharing? It’s not like him to hesitate to speak his mind.

  “Not pulling punches, huh?” he says at last, in a low tone. “All right… I asked my dad to find my mom.”

  Surprise jolts me, widens my eyes. “What? When?”

  “Couple of weeks ago. On the Lake Jarrell trip.” He expels a pained breath. “He wasn’t happy, but he said he’d do it. Hasn’t said anything about having found her yet, though.”

  “God, Logan,” I breathe out, pushing away from him, this time managing to scoot back far enough to see his face, though in the nearly complete darkness, there’s little to see except the faint outlines of his profile.

  “I know,” he grinds out. “I’m a selfish piece of shit. It was more convenient than doing it myself, easier than hiring someone, and spoiled only child that I am, I knew he wouldn’t say no.”

  My stomach knotting, I put my hand on his chest. Beneath his soft tee, his heartbeat feels steady against my palm, steady but too fast.

  “I just need to know where she went,” he says in a near-whisper. “What happened to her.”

  “I know.” I take my hand off him, because this is getting a little too close for comfort. Bad enough that I’m lying here plastered up against him.

  He scoffs, a self-deprecating sound. “At least I’m not trying to justify it by saying it’ll be good for Pop to find out, too.”

  An ache swells in my throat. No, because he knows that’s nonsense. It’s been almost three decades. If Mike wanted to find her, he would’ve done it already. Rose McKinley left him and their son, just disappeared, never to be heard from again. He’s never been served divorce papers, so wherever she is, she’s still his wife.

  As far as anyone knows, my father-in-law has never been involved with any other women. Has never introduced a girlfriend, never talked about seeing anyone. I’ve always found that unbelievably sad. What she did to him seems like it was permanent, and he hasn’t gotten over it.

  How can searching for her now be anything but a painful dredging-up of the past for him?

  He wouldn’t have refused, though. Of course not. Mike McKinley would do anything for his son. It’s endearing, admirable—and unhealthy. Logan deliberately took advantage of that. I get why, but yeah, he should be ashamed. I would be.

  “So what are you going to do if he finds her?” I ask.

  “I have no fucking clue.” Letting that sink in, he captures my hand and brings it back up to his chest, threading his fingers with mine, squeezing. After a few seconds, he says, “Truth.”

  I’m so distracted by the feel of his hand enveloping mine that it takes me a moment to realize he’s giving me my next word. “Ugh,” I grunt. “Did I mention I hate this game?”

  “No. Really?” he says in mock surprise, and I smile despite myself.

  “Truth…” I scrunch up my face. It’s so tempting to be glib, to offer up something that costs me nothing. That’d be unfair, though. Cowardly. He’s confessed so much to me today, and I know none of it’s been easy for him. I owe him something in return.

  The truth.

  I swallow hard, wetting my mouth. Then, with a rushing and a whooshing in my head, I whisper, “I’ve missed you.”

  I can feel his body stiffening in surprise, can hear him suck in air and hold it, holding it for a long time. Something bursts within me, my lungs constricting, and I can’t dec
ide if I regret saying it or if it’s his reaction that’s ripping me in half.

  “Shit, baby.” He twists toward me, pulling me closer, flattening my breasts against his chest, his hand on my back and his breath fanning hot against my forehead.

  I tense up, go still as a statue, suddenly unable to catch my breath. No. It’s definitely time to end this. Searching for a way to extricate myself, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Question.”

  “Question.” Sounding confused, he inches back slightly. “That’s your word?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Question,” he says slowly. “Huh.”

  I wait, holding my breath in the dark. Have I stumped him? That’d be a first. I would’ve thought he’d have a lot of questions for me that he’s dying to have answered. As for me, my only question right now is: how do I get out of this hammock without his cooperation? Ugh.

  “Okay. Here it is.” His hand on my back starts sliding down toward my ass, and he pushes up and leans close to my ear, murmuring, “How many times do you wanna come tonight?”

  Chapter 22

  Paige

  For several seconds, I’m too breathless to speak. I knew this was where he was headed; of course I did. But last night was all about our anger and pent-up resentment and the desire we still have for each other despite it, and there’s a safety and strange comfort to all of those feelings. Because they’re familiar, and I know how to deal with them.

  But now. Now I’m in a different place entirely, and it’s dangerous ground.

  “My attorney advised—no, ordered me not to sleep with you,” I tell him, fully aware that I’m trying to convince him as much as myself.

  “Yeah?” He inches back, and his voice has an edge to it. “Here’s the thing about that: Beth can go fuck herself.”

  My lips quiver. “She probably does. She’s single.”

  I expect him to laugh, but instead his face darkens, heat glinting in his eyes. Sliding his hand around to my thigh, he says, “Tell me more about what single women do to entertain themselves.”

  Automatically, I push his hand away and squeeze my thighs together. “We watch Jane Austen movies, drink wine, and then we masturbate while fantasizing about Mr. Darcy.”

  “Mr. Darcy’s overrated.” His fingers shove in between my legs, undeterred. “I bet he never eats pussy.”

  Oh, God. The air grows thick, humid like a swamp. I keep my thighs clenched, even though I’m dying to let him find what he’s searching for. “Maybe that’s what’s overrated.”

  “I don’t think so, babe.” He gives me a wicked smile, and as his head descends again, he says, “All those cheap gadgets are a weak substitute for what you really want. Admit it.”

  “I’m sorry. Cheap?” His hot breath is on my neck, and I tense with anticipation. “You know I always do my research and only make sound investments.”

  “Good to know you’re spending my money on worthy causes,” he murmurs before putting his mouth where my neck meets my shoulders, digging his teeth in.

  My money. The surge of arousal that shoots through me is like liquid fire, burning all the hotter by anger at his jab. He’s trying to piss me off, and it’s working. Oh, God, is it working.

  “Fuck you,” I hiss out, shoving futilely at his immovable shoulders even as I shudder at the magic he’s working with his tongue and teeth on my neck, sending shocks of pleasure down my spine.

  “Please do,” he says, and I feel his smile against my skin.

  My breath escapes in a rush. He feels so good—familiar, like a precious part of myself that I lost and have finally found again.

  I need to stop this, now. While I still can.

  I still can. Right?

  As if by their own accord, my thigh muscles surrender, relaxing and giving him the access he’s seeking. What am I doing? Dammit, dammit.

  His hand pushes, spreads my legs wider. The hammock wobbles, tottering precariously, and I suck in a breath.

  “You’ll have to lie still,” Logan warns as he brushes feathery kisses up my jawline. “Think you can do that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I taunt, gritting my teeth. “Staying awake might be more of a challenge.”

  He snickers derisively. “Baby, don’t try to bullshit me when I have the truth literally at my fingertips.” He shifts my panties aside, and then he’s probing and stroking, his fingers gliding easily, coated by my slickness. “See?”

  I don’t know if the choked sound that wrenches from my throat is denial or agreement. It doesn’t matter. His thumb finds my clit, and I stop breathing, concentrating fiercely on not moving. I want to arch into his touch, want to push my hips up and grind against it, and it takes all my restraint not to.

  “Do you have any idea,” he says, his thumb pressing and rubbing and swirling, “how much I’ve missed this?”

  A tiny whimper is my only response.

  “I need to touch you like I need to breathe,” he goes on, and then his lips find mine.

  My senses are overwhelmed, assaulted on all fronts. His hand between my legs, fingers stroking and pushing inside, his tongue in my mouth and his teeth grazing my lips, but most of all, his hard body on top of me, pressed into me and matching me perfectly. As if the years we spent together molded us into complementing shapes and we still haven’t returned to our original forms.

  Like we still fit.

  “Logan,” I breathe out, throwing my head back, clutching at him and straining into his touch, and a jolt shoots through me as I’m pushed over the edge. With a whimper, I go still, digging my nails into his arms as my climax sparks like a hundred firecrackers. And through it, he holds me, his fingers knowing exactly how to make the moment stretch, his mouth on my neck pushing me higher, further.

  “That was one,” he murmurs while I’m still lying there with my eyes closed, feeling weightless and not ready to come back down to earth.

  “The only one,” I say harshly. Because now that I’ve come, I’ll have the strength to put a stop to this. Right?

  “Not likely, baby.” He slips his hand around to cup my ass, pushing me into his groin, up against his hardness. And I can’t help it: I roll my hips, trying to get closer—mindlessly reaching for more of him, more of this feeling, not ready to let it go.

  “Shit,” he mutters as the hammock lurches, clasping me tightly and holding us still, frozen.

  It doesn’t work.

  We wobble. We sway. Then we start to swing and tip toward my side of the hammock, and immediately, Logan jerks backward, flipping us the other direction.

  A squeal escapes me as we fall. It’s a short drop, and he hits the ground with a dull thud. I land on top of him, and for a second, all the air leaves my chest.

  “Ugh,” he grunts, and I push up and see his face scrunched up, can tell he’s holding his breath.

  “You okay?”

  “Yup.” He says it quickly while still grimacing.

  I scramble up to my knees and get to my feet. Well, at least now I can get away from him. Him and his hands and his mouth and his body that is as damn near irresistible as is it familiar. Or is he irresistible because he’s familiar? As if I know exactly how good he can make me feel, and that’s the whole problem?

  “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Eyes wide open, he twists toward me, grasping for my legs.

  Nimbly, I dance out of the way. “I’m going to bed. Without you.”

  “Yeah, right,” he growls, and as I turn around to pick up my flip-flops—deciding I don’t have time to put them on—I can hear him behind me, pushing up off the ground as well.

  I don’t run toward the cabin. It’s more of an accelerated power walk. Bounding up the steps, I hardly slow down as I snatch the almost empty wine bottle on my way past the patio table. As I pull on the sliding door, the wooden floorboards behind me creak at Logan’s heavy footfalls, and I don’t take the time to close the door behind me.

  Heart racing, I streak across the great room, dodging furniture I can barely s
ee now that it’s nearly full dark outside. Sensing him just a few steps behind me, I swivel and start walking backward.

  “G’night, Logan,” I tell him firmly, bringing the bottle up to my lips and tipping my head back as I take a drink, the rich and fruity taste of it washing over my tongue. Behind my back, I fumble until my hand finds the handle on the bedroom door.

  “You better not shut that door on me,” my husband snarls, his beautiful face stark with lust and the predatory look that’s such a crucial part of this game, one that he plays so convincingly.

  Smirking, I shove open the door and slip inside, seeing the flash of movement outside as he lunges to stop me. I’ve got my hand on the lock, ready to flip it as soon as I can, and I’m just an inch away from doing so when his hand slaps hard and loud on the other side of the wood panel.

  Knowing I stand no chance against his strength, I still push on the door, putting my shoulder into it, and for a second it almost feels like it’ll give way. But of course, he’s just holding it and keeping it from shutting, and as soon as he starts shoving back, the door moves inward, and I’m forced to let it go and jump out of the way.

  He flicks on the light switch, and then he’s looming in the brightly lit doorway, large and solid, his chest heaving and straining against that tight-fitting shirt, the one that’s been driving me a little crazy all night. The thrill that prickles through me, spreading from head to toe, is part excitement and part apprehension.

  I know why he turned on the light. It’s been too long since we’ve done this, and he wants to experience it with all of his senses.

  And I know that because it’s what I want, too.

  Shit. Who am I kidding? I want him too much. I’m weak, and I’ve been without him for too long. Tomorrow seems a long way away right now, so long that it’s not worth worrying about. I can have him again, one more time, just for tonight.

  It doesn’t have to mean anything. Doesn’t have to matter.

  I keep backing up, until my ass bumps into the hard bed frame. Logan bears down on me, and I hold the wine bottle close to my torso, as if it’s going to protect me. Of course, he immediately grabs it and yanks it away, and then he looks at it like he’s trying to figure out what to do with it.