Anything but Broken

by Joelle Knox

  “And it’s not Hannah’s fault. I know that.” He exhales roughly but gives me a sidelong look. “Did you take her to breakfast?”

  “Yep. She made out all right.” More than all right, judging from the way everyone kept asking if she’d be back next week. “Hannah’s tough.”

  “Good. I guess I’ll see for myself next weekend, huh?”

  “Guess so.” I grin at him. “You could bring Molly Johnson.”

  Gibb glares and swings a mostly friendly fist at my shoulder. “Watch it. I can still trash those work orders.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  “No, thanks.” It’s shaping up to be a slow day for a change, and I’m about to suggest that Gibb take a long lunch later when my phone beeps in my pocket.

  It’s Hannah. Are you at work already?

  Just got here, I reply. What’s up?

  I’m trying to convince myself to get out of bed.

  Oh, that’s a mental picture worth lingering over. Hannah, sleepy and disheveled and warm, still curled up under the sheets. Yeah?

  Maybe if I had a really good reason. Do you need anything? Donuts?

  Gibb’s watching me, so I take a second to flip him my middle finger before answering. Sounds tempting.

  Gibb snorts and turns away. “You should just take off, man. Enjoy the honeymoon.”

  I shake my head. “It could get busy later.”

  “Then I’ll call you.”

  My phone beeps again. I like tempting you.

  I stifle a groan. “Fine. You know where to find me.”

  His shoulders shake, and I know he’s fighting not to laugh at me. “Get out of here before someone sees that goofy fucking look on your face.”

  “Asshole.” I peer down at my phone as I make my way back into the office. Better idea. You stay in bed and I’ll bring the donuts.

  »» hannah ««

  I don’t stay in bed. By the time Sean comes knocking on Evie’s front door, I’ve washed my face, brushed my teeth, and torn through my room, kicking dirty clothes into the closet and wondering how I made such a damn mess when I don’t even have all my things with me.

  I’m at the door before I remember I forgot to change, and it’s too late now. So I answer the door in my pajamas—cotton shorts and a tank top that feels transparent right now. “Hey. Come on in.”

  “Good morning.” He actually did bring something, one of the bright blue boxes from the bakery down the street from the boutique, and he hands it to me as he walks in.

  “Thank you.” I carry the box into the living room, where my quilting supplies are spread out on the floor in front of the TV. Evie helped me sort scraps last night, and I went to bed without putting anything away. “Are you thirsty? I can make coffee, or we have some Cokes.”

  “The bakery thinks of everything.” He tilts his head toward the box, and I open it to find two covered cups of coffee nestled inside along with the pastries.

  “You’re going to spoil me,” I tell him as I sit on the couch. The coffee table is another of those pieces that looks either cosmetically distressed or lovingly salvaged—only now I know which. Evie finds them at flea markets and yard sales, dropping ten dollars on pieces of furniture no one wants, only to turn around and make them beautiful.

  Like Sean and his car—or me with my scrap quilts, I guess. Maybe we’re all obsessed with rescuing broken things.

  Sean takes one of the coffees and sprawls out beside me, one arm looped casually around my shoulders. “Got any plans for today?”

  Just the hospital later, but I don’t feel like bringing it up. So I reach for one of the pastries instead, breaking off a corner to nibble. “Not really. I need to open up my laptop and actually deal with some of my email, I guess.”

  “Sounds fun.” He wrinkles his nose as he leans his head back and closes his eyes. “I left Gibb alone at the garage.”

  I should probably feel guilty about that, but it’s hard to when he’s here, next to me, and I get to snuggle into his side as I eat breakfast. “I’m sure he can handle it. He seems really good at his job. Evie says he is, anyway.”

  “She’s right.” Sean tilts his head my way and opens one eye. “You look good.”

  My cheeks aren’t the only part of me that heat at the compliment. I abandon the pastry and coffee in favor of curling closer to him, because every point of contact means another giddy spark of anticipation.

  It’s easier to flirt with him in text messages, but I try to capture a hint of that mischief as I smile at him. “I stayed in my pajamas just for you.”

  “I like it.” The back of his hand brushes my bare thigh.

  An accident? I don’t want it to be. Holding my breath, I shift closer, chasing his fingers. But he hasn’t moved, so I wind up rubbing my leg against his hand.

  Sean is watching me now. “Does Evie come home for lunch?”

  I don’t think I’ve been here long enough to know for sure, and I can’t remember right now. That’s not what he’s really asking, anyway. This isn’t safe like the lake, with people nearby to keep us from going too far.

  Whatever too far means.

  “I think she might be meeting Sawyer for lunch,” I tell him. I know she talked about it. Was it today? God, I hope so, because I can’t think with Sean watching me.

  He slides his free hand into my hair and cups my neck. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s utterly focused on my mouth, and he draws in a sharp breath when I lick my lips.

  It’s the reminder I need—that I’m not the only one caught in the grip of needy hunger. I press my hand to his chest, splaying my fingers wide. Not to hold him back, but to brace myself as I lean in.

  He lifts me into his lap instead, his steely grip a shocking reminder of his strength. I end up perched on his thighs, my knees riding alongside his hips. Straddling him, and it’s nothing like the lake. We might be wearing more clothing—well, he is—but there’s no darkness or water to hide behind.

  He can watch my cheeks flush, and he can watch that warmth spread. My tank top is too thin to hide the tightening tips of my nipples, so I crush my chest to his and kiss him before reality can catch up with me.

  But it isn’t reality that crashes into me a heartbeat later. It’s sensation, the tightness spreading into a deeper heat as his tongue slicks over mine, and his fingertips edge beneath the hem of my tank top.

  I want to melt. Everything inside me is screaming for it, but I break away and pant against his cheek. “I should tell you. That I still don’t—that I’m not ready—”

  “For sex?” His voice is low, hoarse. Filthy.

  I never thought anything could weaken my resolve. But I didn’t know I could feel like this—flustered and turned on and achy. Empty, and just thinking that makes me feel debauched. “Can we still do other stuff?”

  His chest rumbles beneath mine, and his hands slide higher up my back. “Hell, yeah.”

  Oh, God. I turn my face to his throat to muffle my moan, but then I change my mind and let him hear it. Maybe he’ll like my noises as much as I like his. Maybe he wants to know how good his hands feel, spread wide and strong on my back.

  So I kiss him instead, pressing my open mouth to his neck. He eases one hand all the way up, under my shirt, to clutch the back of my head. It drags the fabric up over my stomach, almost baring my breasts.

  Remembering the fire that shot through me when he bit me, I tilt my head and close my teeth lightly on his skin. Just a gentle nip, until he holds me closer—and arches his hips under mine.

  Shuddering, I bite harder, hard enough to leave a mark, but he doesn’t pull away. He whispers in my ear, quiet but firm. “How far is too far, Hannah?”

  I don’t know how to answer without sounding clinical or prudish, not without words I can barely say in my head, much less out loud. Maybe I can do it if I close my eyes and pretend it’s just another teasing text message, something I’m sending out into space, not whispering against the cheek of a man who has h
is hands all over me.

  “Anything but—” I take a breath. Squeeze my eyes shut. I can be this girl if I want—the one who can say anything, ask for anything, because Sean will take us right out to the edge of any lines I’m brave enough to draw. “Anything but your dick inside me.”

  His hands tighten. “Jesus Christ.”

  I’m burning up, giddy. I don’t know if I’m horrified or exhilarated by my own words. “Is that far enough?”

  “Never.” His rough, breathless laugh sounds more like a groan. “Even that could never be enough.”

  I know what he means. I want to live in this moment, the two of us tangled together, touching all over. Breathless and happy and lost in one another. I kiss my way up to his jaw and lift my head so I can meet his gaze. “I want to touch you this time.”

  His eyes lock with mine, and he strokes his fingers across my bare back to my side. His thumb grazes my breast as he pulls his hand free of my shirt.

  He’s giving me control, and I almost freeze up. It would be easier to let him guide this, but I’m a wild woman now. I text suggestive things to men from my bed. I whisper the word dick in their ears.

  I’m taking Sean Whitlow’s shirt off.

  I tangle my fingers in the cotton and tug it up, and he raises his arms. As soon as it’s over his head I let it fall away, forgotten, because all of these intriguing, newly revealed muscles are mine to explore.

  I start with his arms, skating my palms over the flexing muscles and up to his shoulders before meeting his gaze again. “You’re perfect.”

  But he’s distracted, toying with the edge of my tank top, a silent question in his eyes.

  I answer it by lifting my arms.

  He takes his time, sliding his hands up my body, as if touching me is more important than guiding the fabric over my head. He lingers just beneath my breasts, then rubs his knuckles over my nipples as he lifts my shirt. They tighten into sensitive, aching points, and when he tosses my shirt aside, I reach for his hands and drag them back. “Please.”

  He cups my breasts, squeezing gently. The movement rubs his roughened palms over my nipples, sparking bright shocks of pleasure through me. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open, but I want to watch him as he bends his head and draws his tongue over the upper swell of my breast.

  Oh God, maybe watching him was a terrible idea. My entire body throbs in time with my pulse as he licks me again. I bury my fingers in his hair, clutching at the back of his head. “Sean?”

  “Yeah?” His breath blows across my wet skin, raising goose bumps on my arms.

  I shiver. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “I know.”

  He knows. He knows I’m inexperienced, out of my depth, and he’s here in spite of the fact that I’ve already freaked out on him once. It should be a relief to have nothing to prove, but it leaves me feeling like I have too little to offer. “I just want you to get something out of this, too.”

  “Hannah?” Before I can say anything, he tugs my lower body closer, grinding my hips against his. Forcing me to feel him—and how hard he is.

  My breath catches. With my thighs forced wide by his body, it would be so easy to repeat that crazy moment at the lake. To rock and shudder in his arms until the friction and his encouraging murmurs get me off.

  The thought makes me want to laugh. If you’d told me a month ago that I’d ever think the words get off and easy in the same sentence—about lawyers and jail time, maybe. Not about joy and my body alive with this heavy anticipation.

  I tilt my head and arch my back. This time, his mouth closes over my nipple.

  I don’t say his name. I gasp it, my fingernails digging into his scalp to keep him from pulling back. It’s good when he licks and mind-blowing when he sucks, and when I feel the teasing graze of his teeth, I think I’m about to come out of my skin.

  It goes on and on until I’m feverish, my head buzzing. That’s when Sean lifts his head and kisses me again, deeper than before, one hand on the back of my head and the other—

  The other, tugging lightly at the waistband of my pajama shorts.

  Panic flares in an instant and dies just as quickly, smothered by pure, unwavering trust. Maybe too much. He could be like all the drunk, horny college boys, testing my limits every five minutes to see if they’ve managed to change them.

  Or maybe he can imagine enough dirty alternatives to rock both of our worlds.

  “Trust me,” he whispers against my mouth, a split second before his fingertips glide beneath my shorts, inside my panties.

  I have two seconds to be torn between excitement and self-consciousness before his fingers slip low enough to graze my clit. And I’m so turned on, so wet, that I’m almost embarrassed. But then Sean groans, a low noise full of such appreciation and sheer lust that my reservations vanish.

  Grinding against him felt good, but it was clumsy and rough. His fingers are precise and intimate, enhanced by the warmth of his skin on mine and his slow movements. Like he’s seducing me, easing me with careful, gentle touches. Coaxing me to trust him.

  I do, and I whisper it against his lips, my voice shaky. “That feels good.”

  “Just like that? Or…” His caresses stay slow, but they’re firmer now. Harder.

  Better. Oh my God, so much better.

  I whimper into his mouth. I’m getting tense again, everything drawing up hot and tight as he centers his touch. He slicks a firm circle over my clit, and my hips jerk, totally beyond my control. All I can do is cling to him and make desperate, encouraging noises.

  “That’s it,” he urges.

  I make the mistake of opening my eyes. He’s watching me from all of two inches away, his eyes so dark and intent, his expression fiercely focused. On me, on my breathless pleas and the pleasure looming over me.

  It’s sharp this time, direct and unrelenting and big. Some terrified part of me wants to flinch away, to retreat to safer, quieter emotions. Something I can manage, something that won’t change me. That’s what I always do. That’s why I ended up sitting under the stars with Sean, confessing my secret terror—that I’m nothing, really. Completely without substance.

  Then hunger rushes into all that empty space, filling me up until I press my forehead to his with a helpless groan. “More. I need more.”

  He hesitates for half a second before moving his hand. He shifts his fingertips until one hovers—almost, almost inside me.

  Then he pushes deeper.

  It’s not just wild emotion filling me now. He is, his finger broad and stretching, edging close to uncomfortably big. But only at first. I press my open mouth to his as that twinge melts into a deeper, darker sort of ache, the kind that has me squirming against his hand in helpless frustration.

  I know I’m close. I just have to remember how to let go.

  Sean opens his mouth on my jaw, whispers words against my skin. “I’ve got you, Hannah.”

  He has me. He has me, and he won’t let go, not even if I shatter, not even if the broken pieces of me slice him to the bone. It’s terrifying, and it’s exhilarating.

  It’s enough. The next time he brushes my clit, my entire body sparks fire, and I cry out. “Right there, right there, please—”

  He gives me exactly what I want, what I need, rough pressure and his thrusting finger and a murmured promise that he’ll hold me, just like this, no matter what.

  Pleasure rolls over me. Not the fast snap of relief from last time, but a slow pressure that builds until I’m muffling hoarse cries against his cheek. My body tightens around his finger, and the heat spills outward in pulses, washing away everything in its path.

  Sean grips the back of my head with a harsh noise, guiding my mouth down to the strong line of his neck instead.

  Maybe he likes it like this, too. A little rough. Dangerous. Shivering through the tiny, lingering jolts, I bite him again.

  His rough breathing melts into a groan. “You’re so tight. Hot.”

  Tight. Hot. Two words I’m
never going to be able to hear without blushing, because I’ll never forget the desperate, approving edge to his voice. He’s probably thinking about being inside me, about how much tighter I’d feel around the erection straining his jeans.

  For one dizzy, wild second, I think about it, too. How he’d be gentle and firm. It would hurt a little, but he’d distract me, make it so, so good.

  That’s the danger. Wanting more, taking more, until one slip-up...

  When I reach for his belt, I’m not distracting him. I’m distracting myself, because it will take all of my focus and concentration to get him off, and that’s what I’m going to do. With my hands, my mouth, however I can. But when my fingers curl around leather, I realize that’s a lie, too.

  I’m not trying to distract myself. I just want to touch him.

  He doesn’t try to stop me. He guides my fingers on the buckle, sucks in a sharp breath when the heel of my hand brushes his fly.

  I pause, my palm flattened against his dick, his hand still between my legs. I want to give him the same thing he gave me—the same shuddering pleasure, the same sweet fantasy. But I don’t even know what that is for him, so I lift my head and meet his glazed eyes. “Tell me how to touch you.”

  He shows me, instead, applying pressure to the back of my hand until it has to be too much, too hard. But then he jerks his hips up, grinding into my grip as his head falls to the cushions on the back of the couch.

  His neck is red and bruised from my teeth. His chest and arms are made of hard muscles that flex and tense as I fumble his pants open, and then I’m cupping him through just his boxers. His fingers flex against me in response, startling a gasp out of me, and I have to grip his shoulder with my free hand to keep my balance. “Don’t sidetrack me.”

  He pants softly through the slow smile that curves his lips, and he stretches his arms out on the couch—ready, waiting.

  All mine.