And I’ve felt the aftereffects of that for seven fucking days.
I scroll through some of our old messages, smirking when I read some of her one-liners and sarcastic quips. Inhaling, I can almost conjure up the scent of the sweet almond lotion she was wearing the last time I saw her, and I can almost imagine the soft glide of her cashmere skin beneath my fingertips.
It’s only a moment later when the screen of my phone lights up, and I’m convinced I’m seeing things.
“Are you home?” Ayla asks on the other end before I have a chance to so much as say hello.
“I am.”
She ends the call, and I’m really fucking confused. I’m two seconds from dialing her back when there’s a knock at the door.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she says, breathless, the second I swing the door open. Her arms wrap around my neck and her mouth presses against mine as we stumble backward.
Cupping my hands on her ass, I lift her up, her thighs wrapping around my hips as I carry her back to my room. A week without her was far too long, and I’m not wasting a single fucking second.
“I tried,” her words whisper against my lips. “For seven days.”
She kisses me harder.
“Couldn’t get you out of my mind,” she says with a sigh, her lips gluing onto mine again.
I don’t tell her how good it feels to see her, to touch her. Instead, I carry her to my room and lay her in the middle of my bed, ripping at her clothes and mine until there’s nothing left, two naked breathless bodies with busy hands and wanting mouths.
“God, I’ve missed you,” I say when I’m climbing over her, running my hands down her inner thighs and spreading them apart. It’s only when our eyes meet that I realize what I’ve said. I didn’t tell her I missed this… I told her I missed her. I press my throbbing cock against her slick heat, teasing at her entrance and desperate to force myself in and fuck her until she can’t walk straight. This is what she gets for keeping herself from me for seven agonizing, mind-fucking days. Sliding my hands beneath her shoulders and bracing myself above her, I crush her mouth with a kiss. “Don’t do that again.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t walk out on me.” I say.
“What choice did you give me?” she asks, slipping her hands around my neck and tracing her fingers through my hair. Her hazel eyes search mine. Her hips grind against mine. One wrong move, and I’d be deep inside her, unable—and unwilling—to stop until we’re both good and done. “I wanted to stay away, Rhett. Believe me.”
My lips drag over hers, and I pull the soft scent of her arousal into my lungs.
“I can’t do the just sex thing with you,” she says, words airy and surrendering. “I like you too much.”
I cup her left breast in my hand, lowering my mouth to the swollen pink bud and taking it between my teeth.
“I don’t want to like you,” she says. “I don’t.”
“I don’t want to like you either,” I say, my tongue circling her pert nipple.
“So you admit it,” she says, lips drawn into a lopsided smirk. “You like me.”
I press my hips harder against hers, letting the words linger in my mouth before breathing life into them. “Yeah. I like you, Ayla.”
Her hands slide down my sides, gripping the small of my back and forcing my hips down as she wriggles beneath me.
“For the love of God, Rhett, I’m on the pill. Just fuck me.” Her plea is impatient and rushed. “I just want to feel you inside me again.”
My cock grows harder, if that’s even possible, and I grip the base, guiding it inside her. I thrust deep and hard until she releases a sigh and her nails dig into my flesh like it hurts so good.
“You’re so damn wet,” I moan into her ear, my face nuzzled into the bend of her neck as I push myself deeper. The faster I thrust, the harder she holds me, her hips bucking as I piston in and out of her. “And you’re so tight. God, you’re tight. You miss this?”
She nods, her eyes squeezed tight, and press my mouth over hers before trailing kisses down her neck. Everything about Ayla is intoxicating, addictive. Her fingertips skim the small of my back as she settles beneath me, hooking her legs at my sides. When her eyes open, we both stop, suddenly realizing we have all the time in the world—or at least it feels that way.
It’s different now—admitting how we feel and laying it out there. There’s a power in that, in owning our truths. I didn’t expect this, but I realize it now.
“I have to tell you something,” I say.
Her eyes widen, and when she blinks, her eyelashes kiss the tops of her cheeks. “What is it?”
“I don’t know if I’m in a good place right now to be what you need,” I say, feeling the weight of the silence between us. “But I’m going to try. Because the way I felt when you walked out last week? I don’t ever want to feel like that again.”
She reaches for my face, tracing her hand along the side of my cheek and offering a simple nod.
“I have to tell you something.” Ayla’s voice is low, somber, and her eyes are locked on me. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, but it falls out of place.
“Can it wait?”
I roll to my back, pulling her over on top of me, watching as she straddles me and guides my swollen cock inside. Her hips roll and she gathers the blankets around us when the air conditioner kicks on, but I like what the cool air does to her skin, the way my hands leave prints where I touch her. My hands frame her hips, guiding her as she rides, back arched. She looks so beautiful like this, bathed in late afternoon light, her hair in her face as she wears my scent and a lust-drunk smirk.
“Rhett, you home?” A man’s voice followed by the slam of the front door sends Ayla scrambling off me, pulling the covers with her.
“Who the hell is that?” she whispers, her body flushed and nipples pointed.
“My brother.” I don’t try to disguise my annoyance. Climbing out of bed, I slip a pair of shorts on and tug a t-shirt over my head before heading down the hall. My brother is kicked back on my sofa, laser focused on the screen of his phone as he scrolls through his dating app—the one he developed and sold in a multi-million-dollar deal eight months ago. “Ever heard of calling?”
Locke waves me off before darkening the screen of his phone and shoving it in his pocket.
“Just got to town,” he says. I haven’t seen him since Damiana’s funeral last month, and even then I was blown away by the fact that he showed up at all. I never know when I’m going to see him. He never calls or texts, he usually just shows up unannounced. Sometimes he stays a night or two, other times he stays a month. “Aren’t you happy to see me? Come on.”
He rises and gives me a high-five and a half-shouldered hug.
“You know you missed me,” he says, flashing a dazzling smile that matches the diamond encrusted timepiece on his left hand. His dark hair is cut low on the sides, long on top, and his expensive jeans are the antithesis of our working class upbringing.
“I’ve got company,” I say.
His smile fades and his eyes move toward the hall, focused on something in the distance.
I turn, spotting Ayla leaning against the wall, fully dressed and tragically void of my seed.
Goddamn it, Locke.
“I’m going to head out,” Ayla says, gently padding across the room to where her bag lies on the floor in the entry, where she dropped it seconds before mauling me a half hour ago.
“Ayla, you don’t have to leave,” I tell her.
“Yeah, don’t go just because of me,” Locke says.
“I need to finish unpacking anyway.” She gives a casual smile, stepping into her shoes and tucking strands of finger-combed sex hair behind her ears.
I move to her side, keeping my voice low. “Not sure how long he’ll be staying. Might have to come to you next time.”
23
Ayla
That man.
The bulk of my stay in LA was sp
ent thinking about Rhett. No, not thinking. Obsessing. I’ve never known a man so intense, and I’ve never felt the kind of euphoria I feel with him—with anyone else.
I determined, over the course of several sleepless nights, that what we have ... whatever it may be ... has to be real. I couldn’t be dreaming it. When you’re dreaming, you don’t feel pinches. You don’t feel anything because it isn’t real. With Rhett, I feel it all: the gaping void when I walked away, the bittersweet longing when I knew I couldn’t text him, the bloom of warmth when I recalled the way he felt inside me, and the rush of blood to my head when I thought about seeing him again.
It wasn’t until I was on my flight back to New York, when the flight attendants were preparing the cabin for landing, that I made a decision.
I could see him again.
I could tell him the truth.
But not until I told him how I felt about him first.
So that’s what I did. I went to him. I told him I liked him. And just as I suspected, he confessed that he was starting to like me too. If he knows how I feel—that I genuinely care for him—maybe he’ll understand when I finally confess everything.
And next time, I won’t let him talk me out of it. I won’t beat around the bush. I’ll come out and say: I’m Bryce’s sister. And I’ve known who you were all along. Just like that.
My phone blows up first thing Wednesday morning.
Rhett: WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
My heart skips, and my blood runs cold. This is too soon, and I need to more time. I have a plan, and this sure as hell isn’t part of it.
Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Nothing like an extremely generic, subject-changing question to buy me some time.
Rhett: JUST GOT DONE WORKING OUT. WANT TO BRING YOU COFFEE. THAT’S WHAT YOU DO WHEN YOU LIKE SOMEONE, RIGHT?
Me: I’VE ALREADY HAD MY COFFEE TODAY. THANKS FOR THE OFFER.
I smack my clenched fist against my forehead. I’m such a bad liar.
Rhett: THEN I’LL BRING YOU SOMETHING ELSE. JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE.
I don’t respond right away. Flinging the covers off the bed, I begin to straighten up the guest room, and then I stop. What am I doing? He can’t come here. My cheeks warm, and my armpits tingle—a telltale sign that I’m nervous as hell.
Rhett: I WANT TO FINISH WHAT WE STARTED YESTERDAY. YOU LEFT ME HANGING.
Me: I WASN’T GOING TO FUCK YOU WITH YOUR BROTHER DOWN THE HALL. I’M A LADY! ;-)
Rhett: LOCKE’S GOING TO BE STAYING WITH ME FOR A WHILE, SO WE’RE GOING TO NEED A NEW PLACE TO FUCK… SPEAKING OF FUCK… WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU LIVE?
Again, I don’t respond. I don’t know how to get out of this, and I should because I’m a writer and writers are supposed to be creative. I reach for a notebook on the nightstand and a pen and I start scribbling a list of excuses, all of which are lame and all of which he’ll see right through. I cross out idea #4, which consists of telling him I’m on my period and that we can’t screw anyway but we could do dinners and movies and whatever else—anything to keep the focus away from beds and apartments for a little more time. That could’ve bought me at least a week, but it’s probably too early in the relationship to start discussing Aunt Flo. Idea #2 isn’t any better, telling him I’m having the place sprayed for bugs (gross) and I’m staying with a friend.
Rhett: ARE YOU A HOARDER? YOU’RE A HOARDER. WRITERS ARE ECCENTRIC. IT MAKES SENSE. YOU’RE TOTALLY CRAZY. I KNEW IT.
Me: I’M NOT A HOARDER.
Rhett: OKAY SO…
Me: THE PLACE WHERE I’M STAYING ... IT DOESN’T BELONG TO ME. I DON’T FEEL COMFORTABLE HOSTING.
There. Boom. Perfect. So simple! Why didn’t I think of that before? Plus, it’s the truth.
Rhett: OKAY FINE. YOU LIKE HOTEL SEX?
Me: YES, BUT I DON’T WANT TO FEEL LIKE AN ESCORT OR A MISTRESS, SO YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO BUY ME DRINKS FIRST, AND SINCE I DON’T LIKE TO DRINK ON AN EMPTY STOMACH, YOU’LL HAVE TO BUY ME DINNER BEFORE THAT.
Rhett: YOU WANT THE BOYFRIEND EXPERIENCE?
My stomach swirls.
Me: I DO. AND AREN’T WE DATING? I LIKE YOU. YOU LIKE ME. SHOULDN’T YOU TAKE ME ON DATES AND STUFF NOW?
Rhett: YOU SHOULD KNOW I’M NOT A WINING AND DINING TYPE OF BOYFRIEND.
Me: SO IT’S OFFICIAL? YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND?
Rhett: SMOOTH.
Three bubbles fill the screen, and he takes forever and a day before sending his next text.
Rhett: YES, AYLA. I’M YOUR BOYFRIEND.
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. Rhett Carson is my boyfriend. It’s a weird, cozy little feeling I never saw coming in a million years.
Rhett: I’LL PICK YOU UP AT EIGHT.
24
Rhett
Ayla’s wrapped in a hotel bedsheet, her dark waves brushing against her shoulder as she stands at the balcony of our hotel room. The sliding door is open, ushering in a warm August breeze that ruffles her hair. We’re on the top floor, the penthouse suite, where we’ve been going at it like rabbits for hours.
I can’t get enough of this woman, tasting every inch of her, my hands in her hair, my name like breathless sighs on her tongue…
Slipping my arms around her waist, I kiss her neck, and her cheek billows while she smiles.
“You wore me out,” she says, leaning against me for support. “And now I’m starving.”
“Room service is coming.”
“They deliver at three in the morning?”
“Here they do.” I hold her tighter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take you out somewhere.”
She’s quiet now, but she said she understood earlier, when I told her I didn’t want people taking pictures of us. I don’t want our relationship to be tabloid fodder, and I don’t want people wondering how the hell I could move on so quickly, so we had a private roof top date before coming here.
No one could possibly understand any of this because I don’t even understand it.
I stopped asking questions.
I stopped trying to figure it out.
I stopped trying to control it because as it turns out, your heart tends to do what it wants and doesn’t give a shit what your head thinks.
I think about Damiana sometimes. It’s rare, but I do. I miss what I thought we had, when I thought I knew who she was. I realize now that she was good at pretending to be everything she thought you wanted. One of these days, I hope to forgive her, but I’ll be damned if I sit around and dwell and sulk and feel sorry for myself because of what she did.
I don’t know if there’s an appropriate length of time a man is supposed to wait between these kinds of things, all I know is that when you find someone like Ayla, you don’t worry about the fine print.
You hold on.
You don’t let go.
You throw your rules out the window.
I look at her now, and I see myself falling in love with her. I feel it happening already, in still, small moments. First my heart swells, then a fullness sweeps over my body. My head feels light. And I can think of nothing else but her.
She was never supposed to mean this much to me.
“You want to go back inside?” she asks, yawning as she turns to me. Ayla threads her fingers into mine.
There’s a knock at the door, presumably room service, and she shuffles to the bathroom, still wrapped in that bedsheet.
We inhale our snack, draw the curtains, and turn out the lights. Ayla lies in my arms, her cheek pressed against my heart and her hand resting on my stomach. When she blinks, I feel the trace of her lashes against my skin.
I want this.
I want her.
25
Ayla
Rhett’s in the hotel shower when a call from Coach Harris lights up my screen. Nothing like a good, hard dose of reality to really get a girl going in the morning.
I’d almost forgotten.
“Shit,” I whisper, holding the phone in my hand like it’s a bomb about to detonate. I panic and freeze, and eventu
ally the call goes to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes with his message.
I make sure Rhett’s still in the shower before listening.
“Ayla, this is Coach Harris,” the voicemail says. “Just calling because we have that proceeds check for Bryce’s foundation from the skate-a-thon. We’d like to present it to you in our next team meeting. It’d be next Friday, ten o’clock in the morning. See you then.”
The bathroom door opens, and Rhett emerges in a cloud of steam, a white towel wrapped low around his waist and his rippled abs gleaming. I realize now that I’m staring, and that I’m not breathing.
I want to remember this moment. I want to remember how it felt when he looked at me like I hung the moon. I want to remember what it felt like when his taste still lingered on my tongue, when my body was consumed with a kind of magnificent soreness only he could inflict.
I thought we had more time to get to know each other—to maybe even fall in love—before I told him. My hope was that he would get to know me, and that he would know my intentions were true.
Eight days.
That’s all we have.
26
Rhett
There’s a girl I’ve never seen before sitting at my kitchen island when I get home from the hotel. She’s eating cereal from one of my bowls and my brother is nowhere to be found.
“Hi.” My voice is flat, unamused. I pull my key from the lock and shut the door.
“Oh, hi!” She climbs off the bar stool, coming at me with open arms and a huge grin. “You must be Locke’s older brother. He told me so much about you.”
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