This is incredible.
“Is that a house?”
“Yep.” Achilles passes me, grabbing my hand and linking our fingers as he drags me along.
“There’s another house next to the pool?”
“That’s probably why they call it a pool house.” He winks, flashing a sideways grin.
My heart races, and the skin on my palm tingles at the feeling of his hand covering mine. My brain scrambles to think of a smart remark to his teasing, but I can’t think straight. It’s an insignificant gesture, nothing special to most people. But I’m not most people. A strange wave of something comes crashing down around me, and I draw in a deep breath.
In a second, he’s in my face, our joined hands lodged between our chests, and his free hand cupping my cheek. “What’s wrong?”
“I-I’m not sure. Is this happening?”
“Is what happening?”
“Are you really holding my hand?” Instead of saying the millions of things running through my mind, this is what I utter like a bumbling idiot.
His gorgeous brown eyes cloud into a deeper shade, and instead of letting my hand go, he tightens his grip. “Yes,” is his simple response.
“It’s been years since you held my hand,” comes pouring out before I can stop it.
“Get used to it.” He leans in closer, placing his forehead against mine.
Flutters begin low in my stomach and my heart pounds wildly. For a brief second, I’m transported back in time. Standing in my parents’ yard, pressed against him, sucked into the depths of his eyes, hypnotized by everything about him. He made me feel like the most precious thing on earth, the way he held me captive. The warmth of his breath coats my lips, and I fight the desire to move the centimeter it would take to touch my mouth to his.
Something passes between us. Without a word, I know he feels it, too. The tip of my tongue runs along my bottom lip and his eyes grow darker. “Harley,” he practically growls, his hand squeezing tighter. In a flash, he steps back but keeps our hands attached. “Let’s eat.”
I want to scream in frustration that I’m not hungry and yank him back to me. Then I remember what else happened that night. It physically hurts remembering his expression when he broke our kiss and walked away. Taking an enormous piece of our relationship with him.
Achilles has always been beautifully complicated. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on him at fifteen. He doesn’t know it, but it took me almost a full year to gather the nerve to talk to him. Loner, bad boy, social outcast… whatever it was, it drew me to him.
Beautifully complicated… and I knew I wanted to be a part of it.
Then it happened. The night before I started my Junior year, my dad got called out on a domestic issue. He and his partner at the time walked up on an obliterated Pete Kingston in a fit of rage, and his wife, Sandy, was being shielded by her seventeen-year-old son, Achilles. In an ironic twist, it was my dad that gave me the courage to talk to Achilles.
On the first day of school, I approached him and never gave him the chance to turn me away. And it’s been that way ever since. I’ve always loved Achilles, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never gotten over it.
To this day, I don’t understand what happened to him three years ago, but I swore if we ever got back to a good place, I’d cherish the friendship and leave the rest behind.
“You hear me?” His question breaks me out of my thoughts.
“What?”
“Did that yoga class mess with your head? I was talking and you went into a daze.”
“Sorry.” I shake out of my haze. “I was actually taking a trip down memory lane.”
His expression goes blank. “Was it a pleasant trip?”
“It was sixteen-year-old Harley and seventeen-year-old Achilles… what do you think?”
His expression changes. “Sixteen-year-old Harley is always an excellent memory.”
My heart and stomach do that flipping, twirling, fluttering thing again, and I decide to move to safer subjects because this exchange is giving me too much to think about.
“What’s for lunch?”
“Hopefully, still your favorite.” He awards me with his heart-stopping grin and goes behind the counter of the summer kitchen. Unfortunately, this means he releases my hand, but when he places a tray on the counter, I debate on what is better. Achilles holding my hand or the unmistakable packaging of my favorite sandwich ever made.
“Oh my God,” I sigh as my mouth waters. “How did you do this?”
“Called the shop this morning and had it delivered.”
“That’s impossible. They don’t deliver. I should know. I’ve tried many times to order delivery, even starting an online petition to change the owners’ minds. It didn’t work, but they gave me a nice gift card for giving them the publicity.”
“They deliver to me.”
“Don’t be cocky.” I scrunch my nose and shoot him a scowl.
“You want to argue about how the food was delivered, or would you like to eat?”
He sweetens the deal by opening one Styrofoam box, and the sight of the sandwich shuts me up. I sit on one of the barstools, take the box, and reach for the plastic silverware. Carefully, I cut each half into halves until there are four equal portions. Then I sprinkle a few of the chips on top of one side and take a bite.
A small moan escapes when the rich mixture of cream cheese, turkey, and provolone coats my tongue. It’s the perfect way to distract me from my Achilles and Harley history. A bottle of water slides in front of me, and I glance up to find him watching me closely.
“Thanks.”
“What’s with the sections?”
“I’ll eat one for dinner and save the rest for tomorrow. It’s my way of savoring.”
“We’re having steaks for dinner.”
“Since when?”
“Since I marinated them before coming to pick you up.”
“Presumptuous much?”
“I call it decisive.”
The smart ass in me wants to educate him on the proper etiquette of asking someone to dinner. But the silly, frilly hearts and unicorns Harley wants to keep the mood light. “I guess I could eat a steak. But regardless, there’s no way I could eat all this.” I point to my food.
“Try,” he clips, picking up his own sandwich.
“I don’t remember you being this bossy.”
This time, when his eyes flare, there’s a slight gleam that shines. He shakes his head, finishes chewing, and relaxes his hip against the counter. “Tell me about your job.”
I decide to let him have his play, ignoring my comments and changing the subject easily. I launch into my position, explaining that it’s a lot more administrative work than actual marketing. It would be nice to have a seat inside the circle of creativity, but my time will come.
He listens intently, keeping his eyes trained on me, and after a long while, I realize he’s finished eating and letting me ramble.
“Sorry! I get a little carried away.”
“I enjoy listening to you.” He takes my leftover food and puts it in a refrigerator that I thought was a part of the stone façade.
“Is that yours, too?” I refer to the other container on the counter.
“Nope, it was for Major, but his stupid ass can eat dirt for all I care.” He hesitates for a second, then shoves it into the fridge as well.
“Is he here?” I twist back to the house.
“I’m assuming he’s asleep, considering he bitched like a baby during our run.”
“You ran? I thought you met Talon and Ford at the gym.”
“I did, then I got in six miles here.”
“Have you slept at all?”
“Not yet.”
“Aren’t you exhausted? You should rest.”
“I’ll be fine. Pool time.” He once again ignores my comments, comes around to take my hand, and leads me to a chair where he threw my bags earlier.
I set up my chair and tighten the hair
tie on top of my head, knowing it’s a hot mess and wearing it down is out of the question. I’d like to think I’m one of those girls that can work out and look like a runway model afterward, but I am anything but. In the quick change I did at my apartment, I was able to partially tame my curls, spritz up a little, and dress in my favorite bikini.
I pull off my cover-up and reach for some lotion when a low rumble causes my head to fly up. My breath catches at the wild expression on his face. But my heart races out of control for other reasons. He’s removed his shirt, and I become paralyzed, unable to move anything but my eyes as they travel over him. Achilles has always been well built, and I’ve seen him in a swimsuit dozens of times. But the man in front of me is almost unrecognizable. My knees wobble and I grip the back of the lounge chair for support. Every part of him is sculpted and muscular, defined much thicker than the last time I saw him.
I zero in on his chest and shoulders, drawn to the massive amount of ink. I knew he had a USMC tattoo on his shoulder blade, but these are new to me. Some of the artwork is recognizable numbers, but most are custom-designed swirls and lines. All of it is remarkable.
I think of his mythical Greek hero namesake. He’s gorgeous… Godlike is the word that comes to mind.
The silence stretches on as I continue to soak in and appreciate every fine detail of his physique. When my eyes find their way back to his, an icy chill runs down my spine.
The intensity in his gaze has me frozen. Insecurity takes over and my hand inches for my towel.
“Stop.” He reads my mind, stepping forward. His fingertips skim down my arms to my hand, where he links our hands again. “You’re beautiful.”
The way he says it sends another kind of chill along my spine, this time bringing a full out body shiver.
“So are you,” I basically whisper.
His own body jolts, and he tightens his grip. “I fucking missed you, Harley.”
“I missed you, too. Maybe too much.” I can’t control my admission.
“I’m back now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, I’m back.”
He doesn’t elaborate further and I force myself to look away, breaking the intensity of the moment. I’ve never been able to hold a grudge for long. It isn’t in my character. Someone says they’re sorry, I either accept or don’t, but always move on. With Achilles, our history is complicated, and I want answers. My heart beats in rhythm with the ringing in my ears, and I swallow down all the thoughts whirling through my head.
‘I’m sorry, I missed you, and I’m back’ replay over and over. I make the decision that it is enough—for now. It may make me pitiful, but with this man, sensibility flies out the window.
“I’m glad you’re back.” There’s no way he can miss the meaning behind my words.
The change in him is immediate. Before I know what’s happening, I’m swooped in the air and over his shoulder. His mission is clear when the edge of the water comes into view.
“Don’t you dare!” I screech, squirming to get free.
In another swift move, I’m upright, with no choice but to wrap my limbs around him and hold on. He jumps forward, both of us going airborne for a second before the cold water crashes around us.
“You want help moving her?”
“You touch her, I will break your hands,” a hushed growl responds.
There’s a low chuckle followed by a few words I can’t make out, then a cool material drapes over my hips and legs. I curl deeper into a ball and sigh, falling back asleep.
“If you care about him, the best thing you can do is let him be himself. Accept and support him. If it ever becomes too much, know when to walk away.”
My dad once told me that Achilles carried the weight of ten men on his shoulders. He bore responsibility that wasn’t his and accepted it willingly. I’ll never forget his advice. My parents knew that I’d never walk away from him. I took Dad’s advice—accepted and supported every step of the way.
Today was different. Achilles has changed. For a few hours, his armor slipped, and he revealed a part of himself that was rare and uncovered.
During the afternoon, Major joined us at the pool. Achilles speared him with a look that would shatter glass, but Major laughed in his face, undeterred, and dove in. I didn’t ask, but I assumed the death glare had something to do with the show this morning at the yoga studio.
I slipped out of the pool and discreetly snapped pictures of the two tossing the football in the pool, then sent them to Jewls. Her comments kept me entertained until my phone was snatched from my hand and I was tossed back into the pool and forced to play a game of volleyball without the net. I spent most of the time dodging the ball and being teased mercilessly. It was humiliating, but the smile on Achilles’ face made it worth it.
I got a semi-tour of the house and discovered there are six bedrooms and seven baths. Achilles showed me to my own room to shower and change, leaving me alone for the first time since the morning. I called Jewls, gave her a brief rundown of the day, had a semi-freak-out, and then rushed to shower before Achilles wondered why I was taking so long.
Luckily, before leaving my apartment, I had the foresight to pack a few essentials. It wasn’t much, but I wasn’t a total train wreck.
Achilles refused my offer to help with dinner and instead poured me a glass of wine while he did most of the prep. Ford and Talon came home from their shift and neither acted surprised to see me. Achilles shot them the same glacial stare as Major, and like Major, they laughed in his face and ignored it.
We ate, we drank, and we caught up on each other’s lives like old friends. The only time Achilles left my side was to grill the steaks, and even then, he pulled my barstool closer to him. I went with the flow, enjoying the carefree atmosphere.
There was a hesitation in the air when I asked about their obligation to the Marines now that they were in the Reserves. Achilles’ jaw got tight, and he sent a look to the others, who didn’t speak up. He sort of brushed me off, saying it was basic protocol, and quickly changed the subject. I let it go because the last thing I wanted was to ruin the relaxed atmosphere of the evening.
Mentally, I make a note to not make that mistake again in my next dream. Because now I’m sure that’s exactly what is happening. I dreamed the whole thing.
Strong arms circle my middle and haul me close. My hair is swept off my face and soft skin runs along my forehead. I clutch my sheet tighter, throw my knee over my pillow, and readjust my body. There’s a grunt, followed by a gentle nudge at my thigh. My leg brushes along something hard before settling. Pounding rushes through my ears and I burrow deeper. The pounding accelerates with my wiggling body.
My eyes fly open and take a few seconds to adjust to the low light coming from the hallway, but when they do, I’m staring at a black serpentine form. The same shape tattooed on Achilles’ ribcage. My body goes rock solid when I realize where I am and exactly what I’m doing.
My hand isn’t gripping my sheet, it’s clutching the waistband of his shorts. My leg isn’t settled between my extra pillows. It’s nestled between his thighs. And the pounding in my ears isn’t excitement from my dream, it’s the beat of his heart against my cheek.
My gaze darts across his broad chest and I recognize the fabric of the sofa. I rack my brain, trying to figure out how we ended up this way. The fog lifts and it comes back to me slowly.
I talked the guys into watching one of my favorite cop shows, which they begrudgingly agreed, then tore it apart. Achilles stretched out on the extended lounger next to me, throwing in his own comments at the stupidity of the people on the TV. He looked tired, so I requested an Uber. The wait time was longer than usual. I must have fallen asleep before it got here. But that doesn’t explain how I wound up attached to his side.
Ever so gently, I dislodge my fingers from his waistband and reach for my phone lying next to his shoulder. His hand flies up, captures my wrist, and flattens my palm on his chest.
&nbs
p; His eyes remain closed, and I take a second to appreciate the view. The dark stubble covering his cheeks and chin, his hair spiked in every direction, the thick eyelashes fanning out. Even unconscious, he’s sinfully sexy.
Drool threatens to dribble down my chin so I try to figure out another way to move without disturbing him. His torso shifts inward, and this is my opportunity. I inhale deep and roll the other way. This doesn’t work, mainly because his grip on my wrist turns vice-like and his other arm hauls me back. Now I’m full out on top of him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His deep, drowsy voice causes a stir in my belly.
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was trying to—”
“Get away?”
“Give you space.”
“Does it seem like I want space?”
“I am practically attached to you.”
“Does it seem like I want space?” he repeats, pressing down on the small of my back to emphasize his point.
In this position, I can feel every ridge and plane of his body, including the hardness against my hip. I make the mistake of jiggling sideways, and his eyes grow heated at the friction.
“Baby, you slide one more time, we’ll have issues.”
“Sorry.” I chew on my lip and hold motionless. “If you let me go, I promise to roll off slowly.”
“Christ, Harley.” It’s hard to determine if he’s aggravated with me for waking him or frustrated with the fact that I’m sprawled on top of him like a horny teenager. The heat in his eyes glitters and his lips tip upward. “You into slow torture? Cause that’s what will happen if you try to get away from me again.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad when I put you here?”
Now, my stomach does an all-out flip, and a thrill races through my veins. “You wanted me to plaster myself to your side?”
“I wanted you any way I could get you. It’s my luck you don’t mind contact sleeping.”
“Do you like contact sleeping?”
“Never thought I would. Now I know differently.”
Speed King (Men of Action) Page 6