Hard to Love

by K. Bromberg

  It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

  A kiss is just a kiss and yet this moment—his lips, his touch, the uniqueness of the glowing water—makes it feel like so much more.

  And even as the thought ebbs and flows through my mind, I know the way I feel has nothing to do with the water.

  It has to do with him. Finn.

  He’s made it so that feeling isn’t a bad thing anymore. I’ve spent months trying not to and in this short amount of time, he makes me look forward to the time I get to spend with him because he makes me feel good. Great. Like I’m floating on air.

  And when we get back to the house and strip off our soaking-wet clothes, we get lost in each other all over again.

  STEVIE

  DAYS RUN TOGETHER.

  Ones filled with training and then laughter. With quick glances and the sudden awareness that our days are numbered.

  In the past, I’ve only had to worry about tournaments. About being ready and prepping as best as I can. But now? Now there is an added element that I’m not sure whether I love or hate. I’m going to miss this.

  Being here.

  Having a place that feels like home.

  Him.

  I pull my floppy sun hat down lower on my head as I pass a couple on the beach, needing to keep this anonymity as long as I can before I hit the bright lights and powder keg of stress at the Open. It’s been heaven having anonymity. Being able to practice without a gaggle of people standing outside that I have to fight my way through. Being able to work on something with Kellen without fearing an article will be printed saying I’m off my game because I keep repeating the same strokes over and over.

  I can’t remember the last time I was afforded this type of freedom.

  “There you are.”

  I turn at the sound of Finn’s voice. “What are you doing down here?”

  He grabs my hand and links his fingers with mine. “Taking a walk with you.”

  “But you said you have a list a mile long to get done today.”

  “I did. I do.” He shrugs and looks over to where a bunch of kids are digging in the sand and throwing it at each other. “But I looked out the window and saw you down here in this very sexy hat”—he reaches out with his free hand and tugs on it— “and I figured that work could wait and a walk with a beautiful woman couldn’t.”

  Is it silly that my stomach flutters at his words? That I’m flattered he took a pause from his work to come down here and spend time with me? Is it even sillier that my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard that he did?

  This man makes me feel good. About myself. About my future. About the day-to-day. I’ve never experienced that before.

  Sure, I had my dad there day in, day out, pushing me to be an incredible tennis player.

  But it’s almost like Finn has been here day in and day out, showing me what it feels like to be a woman. With his words and his actions and the glances across the room.

  “Oh, you make my heart go pitter-patter,” I tease to cover my sudden inability to speak.

  He just squeezes my hand and swings them as we keep walking. The silence is comfortable between us, not forced or awkward, and yet there is a weight to it.

  “What is it, Sanderson? You’re silent but you’ve got a lot to say.”

  He chuckles. “You leave in ten days.”

  And there it is. What we’ve been avoiding. What we have kissed and slept our way around without actually saying out loud.

  “I do.” I give a measured nod.

  “Do you think that you’re ready?”

  For the briefest of seconds, my heart falls. I thought he was talking about me going because he was going to miss me, not because his agent hat is on and he’s thinking about me professionally.

  I clear my throat of the sudden emotion swelling there and nod to give myself a second. “Yes. I do. I think I’ll be able to compete.”

  “I think you’d be able to compete even if you hadn’t been training as hard as you have been. That’s just you.”

  “It is.” I give a soft smile and steal a glance at him from beneath my hat before looking back at the sand in front of us. “But I think I will be able to perform well, meaning I’m going in there confident in where I’m at.”

  He nods but doesn’t speak for another beat. “I’m going to miss you.”

  Tears well in my eyes for some reason and I’m not quite sure what to do with this odd sensation in my chest. “Me too.”

  Tell me you wish I could stay.

  Tell me you want to make this work somehow.

  Tell me something, anything, that expresses how you feel when you look at me.

  “It’s been a fun run, hasn’t it?”

  I laugh to release the sudden nerves racing through me. “It has. After we got off to a rocky start.”

  “And then there was the infamous strip poker incident—”

  “—very funny—”

  “—but I think we’ve more than made up for it.”

  “We have.” My smile is bittersweet, sad even. I feel like we’re choosing our words cautiously.

  Because he’s not going to tell me he wants me to stay.

  Because he doesn’t want this to work somehow.

  Because he can’t tell me something, anything, that expresses how he feels when he looks at me.

  And this is why I should be telling myself things like “Didn’t we both know this was going to come to an end?” Because that is our truth. That is our reality.

  Knowing it would end and actually acknowledging it are two different things.

  “Look.” He stops to pick up a small, white sand dollar and turns it over in his hand before handing it to me. “For good luck.”

  “Thank you.” I stare at the intricate designs on the delicate urchin and hate that tears blur my eyes.

  Good luck at the Open.

  Good luck in your life.

  Good luck . . . because this is almost over.

  “So what’s next for you? Do you play the Open and then head back to Florida or will you immediately start training for the next tournament?”

  “I’m not quite sure.” Because my dad used to tell me what was next. “I’ve been so focused on the Open and getting there that I haven’t really thought about the next steps.” I shrug. I haven’t wanted to think of anything after the Open, because that hurts too much. “Normally my dad determined where I’d head next, and it was often back home after the Open. So . . .” Don’t get teary, Stevie. Hold it together. “I need to sort through my dad’s things and handle all of that stuff. Maybe look at getting a new place.”

  “Do you think you’re ready to?”

  “Ready to what?”

  “Sort through his things.”

  “I don’t think anyone is ever ready to, but I’m in a much better headspace now to do so thanks to you.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Stevie. You figured it all out on your own.”

  “I bet you’ll be happy to get rid of me. To have your space back to yourself. To head back to your place in Manhattan. To be able to fly off and see clients at the drop of a dime when needed without worrying a certain female con artist is going to rob you blind.” Finn doesn’t laugh like I expect him to.

  He doesn’t even answer. Instead, he tucks me in close, his arm around my shoulder, my arms sliding around his waist, and we stare out at the water in silence.

  My thoughts race and my heart feels heavy. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to like Finn Sanderson let alone slowly fall in love with him.

  Because isn’t that what I’ve done?

  Isn’t that why I’m so upset right now?

  Isn’t that why I’m dreading what will happen in ten days?

  “Why do I feel like we’re already starting to say goodbye?” I finally ask.

  “We’re not. We’re just forcing ourselves to get used to the idea.” He tilts my chin up with his thumb and forefinger so that I’m forced to meet his eyes. There is emotio
n swimming in his eyes that matches how I feel. Confused. Worried. Sad. Missing me already. “But for now, we stay focused on your preparation for the Open, okay? You have had a tough one, Stevie, so let’s keep taking each day as we are, staying focused on getting you another Grand Slam victory.” He gives me a tight smile and then leans down to brush his lips against mine.

  “Another victory.” I clear my throat. “That’s what Dad would want,” I whisper. He smiles at me, and it’s with such tenderness that tears form.

  “Yes, that’s what your dad would want,” Finn says quietly.

  But what I want is to get lost in Finn. Yes, I want victory at the Open, but I’m beginning to see that I want a win in another area of my life. And right now, that’s more with Finn. More.

  FINN

  THERE HAS BEEN A SOMBER tone to the house since our walk on the beach. A sense that we know what’s going to happen, don’t want it to happen, but also the eagerness to get back to the lives we used to know.

  So I work. Because not working, joining her on the beach for a walk or hearing her laugh or watching her as she plays those silly games on her phone with her bottom lip between her teeth, is a constant reminder that she’s going to be gone soon.

  If she wanted more, she’d tell me, right?

  Fuck if I know.

  Hell, I don’t even want more.

  You’re such a fucking liar, Sanderson. You want more. You want a lot of fucking things when it comes to Stevie Lancaster but none of them are feasible.

  Christ.

  I welcome the buzzing of my phone. A client to help drown out the constant fucking noise in my head that goes against everything I’ve ever been told. That I’ve ever thought.

  “Hey, Rowdy. What’s up?”

  Rowdy begins to talk. And talk. And talk. About the things he’s being denied. About how he’s being disrespected by not getting more playing time. About what justifies the huge chip on his shoulder that I know is turning his general manager and coach off.

  But I know better than to speak up. I know I’m his sounding board so that he gets it off his chest instead of going off on his bosses.

  “Hold on, let me put you on speaker because my phone is dying,” I lie. But I know the way Rowdy talks, and my phone could die by the time he’s done. “Okay. You’re good.”

  His voice floods the room as I rise from my chair and move about my office, prepared for the long haul in this conversation. I look to see what’s happening on the beach. I turn to fiddle with a few things on the bookshelf behind my desk. But it’s only when I turn back to take a seat that I’m met with pure fucking perfection.

  Stevie wasn’t joking about that fantasy of hers because here she is, naked as can be, with her ass on my desk and her thighs spread. I’m not sure what I want to look at more, the goddamn perfection of her pussy or the smug seduction in her eyes.

  “Are you hearing me, Sanderson?” Rowdy asks.

  “I am,” I say not having heard a single word he’s said since seeing Stevie.

  “Good. I’m not finished. I . . .”

  He drones on, but I push mute on the speaker before acting on my one and only thought. Tasting her. I drop to my knees without saying a word and slide my tongue between her perfectly pink lips.

  Her gasp, the way her one hand fists immediately in my hair, the way she tastes . . . is the hottest fucking turn-on.

  Her thighs tense against my hands spreading them apart as I dart my tongue inside her, feeling the quick pulse of her muscles around me. I then slide my tongue back up her seam and suck on her hub of nerves there.

  Stevie pulls my head back by my hair so that I’m forced to look up at her. She leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Are you ready to fuck me, Finn?”

  I’ve found myself rolling my eyes in the past when a woman has tried to dirty talk me or be in charge. It often sounds forced or ridiculous, but not when it comes to Stevie. Not when she’s pulling my hair and demanding that I fuck her. Not in the least.

  I struggle to remember to unmute the phone. “Yes, I agree,” I murmur to something Rowdy says, but my eyes are one hundred percent consumed with Stevie’s.

  I rise from my knees and capture my mouth over hers. I want her to taste how she tastes to me. I want her to see why I’m totally fucking consumed by that pussy of hers.

  And by the time I’m done kissing her, I have my dick out of my zipper, am turning her around, and pushing her face down on my desk.

  I take a moment to stare at her like that. Her ass, her thighs, her arousal glistening between them, and know I will never look at my desk the same again.

  Ever.

  I’ll always picture her there with that come-hither look and her thighs spread for me.

  I run a hand over the curve of her ass and then down between her slit, her body squirming beneath my touch.

  “Finn?”

  I turn mute off. “I’m listening, Rowd,” I say as I slide the head of my cock up and down, wetting it with her wetness. She wiggles her ass against me and fucking hell, I do the only thing I can—give her what she wants.

  I push my way into her, my eyes rolling back as she closes around me and takes me in as far as I’ll go. I see stars. The pleasure owns every goddamn piece of me.

  “Finn,” she murmurs and her voice jolts me back to the here and now and that Rowdy’s on the phone. I cover her mouth with my hand as I lick a line up her spine. The motion only serves to drive me deeper inside of her. At least my hand muffles her moan.

  “Don’t make a sound,” I whisper into her ear. “Or I won’t let you come.”

  Her laugh is deep and throaty and makes my balls tighter, if that’s even possible. Being buried this deep has them tight already.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  This woman.

  She could drag me to the depths of hell, and I swear to God, I’d follow her.

  I kiss my way back down her spine and begin to move. Slow, deep strokes that feel like every nerve ending in my cock is getting paid its due attention by her wet, tight heat.

  The woman is definitely my drug. The feel of her. The taste of her. The sound of her.

  I push my way in and grind hard against her as her hands reach out and grip the edge of the desk. Her teeth nip at my hand covering her mouth and—

  “Sanderson. Am I talking to myself here?”

  “My connection is breaking up,” I say, trying to fight the breathlessness to my voice. “I’ll have to call you back.”

  And without waiting for his response, I hang up the phone before sliding my hand from Stevie’s mouth to fist in her hair.

  “Thank God,” she moans as I slam into her from behind, her body shoving against the desk and her skin moving with the connection. I do it again. And again.

  “Harder,” she groans.

  I thrust as deep as I can go and get rewarded by how she tightens herself around me.

  “Faster,” she begs.

  I lean over her, grinding into her again. “You’ll get me, all right. Hard. Fast. Nonstop.” I scrape my teeth over her shoulder. “But on my terms. In my way.”

  “Please.” The breathlessness with which she says that single word is such a damn turn-on.

  This time when I pick up the pace, there is no slowing down.

  Not when she screams out my name and her body pulses all around me.

  Not when my spine begins to tingle and my balls tighten as she milks me over the edge.

  Not when it’s her name on my lips this time.

  My last thought as I find my release is this is going to hurt.

  She is going to hurt.

  Letting her go is going to hurt.

  STEVIE

  “I’M ON MY WAY OUT,” Faith says as she moves into the kitchen.

  “Faith?” Finn asks looking over from where we sit on the couch. “It’s past nine o’clock. I thought you left a long time ago.”

  “I know but I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed while I’m gone for a few days. T
he refrigerator in the garage has meals ready for you and—”

  “Thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to stay. Your family is probably missing you.”

  She snorts. “Stanley is too wrapped up in watching baseball tonight to even notice I’m gone.” She waves her hand his way in dismissal and smiles.

  “I doubt that.”

  “After thirty-five years, I know that when the Padres are on, he prefers me to be busy so I don’t bug him.”

  “Well, have a great trip,” Finn says.

  “We will.” I hear her keys rattle. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Did either of you drop this on your way in? It’s brand new with the tag on it so I figured it’s yours since it was just outside the gate by the mailbox.”

  Both Finn and I turn to look at what she’s holding up, and I swear to God my breath stops at the sight of the red Nike ball cap in her hands.

  Just like my dad used to wear.

  It takes me a second to find both my feet beneath me and my words as I stand and move toward her. “Where did you . . .”

  I take the hat from her, not thinking about it being someone else’s despite the tag hanging from it and not really caring, because in an instant, I’m swamped with the grief that has been fading over time.

  Tears well in my eyes as I stare at this hat. I can’t help but think it’s a sign from him. A something from the powers that be to tell me I’m doing okay and that he’s still here with me.

  “Thank you, Faith,” Finn murmurs as he puts his arm around me and steers me to the couch before sitting on the table facing me. But I can’t even bring myself to look up and meet his eyes because I’m so busy staring at this silly hat that somebody is missing.

  “Tell me about him,” Finn murmurs, his hands closing over mine as they hold on to the hat.

  “He was my dad.” I whisper the words and then realize that term doesn’t have the same meaning for him that it does for me. “He was the only person I had for so long, that I don’t know what life is like without him.”

  “I’m sure he felt the same way about you.”

  “He went to Mother’s Day events and made a grand show of it so I wouldn’t feel left out. I’m talking feather boas and glitter tiaras and he didn’t give a rat’s ass what people thought about him so long as I smiled. We’d celebrate Christmas in Australia, heading down early, before the Australian Open. He surprised me every year with the ugliest Christmas sweater I’d ever seen, and then we’d turn the air down in our hotel room to make it feel cold and wintery while we ate dinner and opened gifts. He signed cards pretending they were from my mother, even when he knew that I knew it was his handwriting. Birthdays were all-out events. He . . .” I hiccup over a sob as I remember the many ridiculous things he did that I’ve forgotten over time.