Only You

by Addison Fox

  With his free hand, Fender stilled her arm, pulling her up so that her breasts were flush against his chest. “Much as I’d love to stay right here, perhaps we can find our way to the bed and save the calisthenics for when we know each other better?”

  “You mean you don’t want to bang me against the door?”

  Harlow meant the words as a lighthearted tease, so she wasn’t prepared for the way his arms tightened around her protectively. “I want you anywhere I can have you. But strangely, banging you wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”

  Something hard settled in her throat, blocking her ability to speak for a moment. Whatever she’d believed this was—and she hadn’t take it lightly—the seriousness in that bottle-green gaze proved that it was something special.

  For both of them.

  Swallowing around the lump in her throat, she settled her hands at his waist. “Straight down the hall, past the kitchen.”

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Fender wasn’t sure when everything had changed. Maybe it was the moment just now, outside her door, when she told him to come in. Perhaps it was the day she stood in the rain, waiting for a cab to pick her up in front of Gino’s. Or maybe it really was that first day in her gallery, those long legs captivating him as surely as her tempting smile.

  But everything had changed. He wanted this woman in ways he’d never expected, and in ways he’d only dreamed of.

  Dreams he’d never allowed himself to dream before.

  The boy with an exit strategy had grown into a man with an exit strategy—always—yet something about Harlow Reynolds made him want to stay. To hunker down and put roots. To build something.

  To stick.

  And she was the last woman he could do that with.

  He knew his old man, and he knew where and what he’d come from. There was no way he could let any of that touch this pure and beautiful soul.

  So he’d share tonight with her and leave her in the morning. He’d do what he set out to do the entire fucking subway ride into the city, and that was break things off.

  But first, he was going to drink his fill.

  Moonlight and the Fifth Avenue streetlamps filtered into her room, lighting everything in a silver-hued glow. It was fitting—magical, almost—and he was enchanted by her as she led him to her bed.

  He still wore his slacks and shoes and he was anxious to remove both, but couldn’t resist taking the time to look his fill. She stood there, naked except for panties and high heels, and his mouth watered at the sensual feast.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  Even in the darkened room, he saw the blush tinge her skin. It was sweet and all the more potent when she stood still before him, not covering her nakedness. “Thank you.”

  “And you’re still wearing too many clothes.” He moved closer, his finger tracing the thin line of silk that rode low on her hips. “Although far be it from me to ask you to remove the heels.”

  “You won’t like them quite so much when one’s poking you.”

  He wasn’t sure she was right but opted not to test the theory. “So you say.”

  She leaned up and nipped his chin before kissing her way over his throat. “Fender?”

  Husky and low, the timbre of her voice vibrated against his neck. “Yes?”

  “Do you think maybe you can take your pants off?”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

  More carefree and happy than he could ever remember being, he took a few steps back and kicked off his shoes. He dragged his slacks and briefs off together and stepped out of them, painfully aware of the cooler air when his erection sprang free.

  He reached for her, anxious to touch that thin line of silk again, when Harlow danced out of his reach. She slipped from her heels, one by one, and then slid that monumentally small scrap of silk down impossibly long legs. He was a man who’d just enjoyed a fine meal, yet his mouth still watered, and his body hungered beyond measure.

  For her.

  When she stood to her full height, he laughed, the feeling as unexpected as it was sudden.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re a lot shorter than I realized.” He moved closer, pulling her into his arms. “Which makes me realize I haven’t spent any time with you when you’re not wearing your ice picks.”

  She fit against him, and he lay his chin against the top of her head. “I like it.”

  Her arms tightened around his waist, a moment of sweet calm and quiet in the midst of a sexual storm. “Good.”

  The heat of her body painted his, and Fender fought twin desires—to stand like that with her in his arms forever, and the need to brand her with his body. In the end, carnal need won out, and he pulled her with him as he fell onto the bed, the lush weight of her on top of him only adding to the fantasy of being with her.

  The light teasing and playful nips subsided as the heat between them grew. Touches grew more forceful, each stroke of fingers over flesh growing longer as sighs met and merged, blended and bent in the quiet. She sighed when he ran his hands over her breasts, his thumbs finding pert, erect nipples. He moaned when her hands returned to his erection, the explorations from base to tip and back again hazing his vision as a raging urgency pushed him on toward completion.

  The slacks he’d tossed to the floor held a condom, and he tore himself from her to retrieve it. As he came back to the bed, he caught sight of her in the moonlight. Her eyes were hungry, her body flushed with desire, and he knew he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

  Nor had he ever felt more than he did in that moment.

  He sheathed himself, then lay over her to kiss a path from her lips to her throat, over her collarbone and on down. He’d intended to go further—to push himself as long as he could—but knew both of them had reached the edge. When he sensed the urgency in her movements, he rolled to his back, taking her with him. She moved over his body, capturing him with her hand to guide him inside of her. Fender went where she led, helping her find a rhythm that suited them both.

  And just like the fantasy that had filled his mind’s eye at the start of their evening, her naked body rose up over him, their hips moving in matched movements.

  Moans filled the air, hers light and achy, his darker and deeper as she rode him.

  Fender struggled to stay in the moment, desperate for release now that he was buried deep within her, yet he held himself back as he watched her. Moonlight washed her skin in silver light, and as he stared at the beautiful sight of her taking her release, Fender knew he was lost to her.

  Forever.

  With that certainty pounding in his veins, he followed her.

  * * *

  “Dare I ask?” A question had danced through her mind several times over the past few weeks, and Harlow decided laying naked in a man’s arms gave her the right to ask it.

  “Ask what?” He groaned against her throat, his large body still sprawled over hers. They’d just finished up a second round of spectacular sex, and she was feeling that superior mix of sated and smug.

  “Where’d the name Fender come from?”

  “Hmm?” he lifted his head, his gaze slowly refocusing on hers.

  “Your name. I’m curious about it. It’s unusual.”

  “And Harlow isn’t?”

  “Touché. Still, I’d like to know.”

  He lifted his body fully off her and shifted so he lay beside her, his arm possessively over her torso. His fingers were deliciously close to her breasts and she reveled in the heavy weight of his arm on her body.

  “For reasons that puzzle me, our parents seem to find their way into anything having to do with our sex lives,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “On Sunday, we both remarked how our parents mentally hovering over our heads wasn’t a typical consideration when dating. Or doing anything eminently more interesting.”

  “Clearly we haven’t let that stop us.”

  A wicked grin lit his face
as he leaned forward and planted a hard kiss on her lips. “True. But that’s beside the point. I usually don’t discuss my father with a naked woman in my arms.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Not much.” His face scrunched up as if he considered saying something, then went for broke. “The truth is, I haven’t said much at all in those situations.”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “And you talk an awful lot after sex.”

  “You’re talking back.”

  “Because you’re asking me questions.” He let out a sleepy sigh before pulling her close. His lips were near her ear, and he sighed once more, seeming to resign himself to the inevitable discussion. “My father named me after a car part.”

  The answer was so simple—so obvious—Harlow nearly sat up. If it weren’t for the heavy forearm pinning her down she probably would have. “But that’s so easy.”

  “What’d you think I was going to say?”

  “I figured it was a family name or something.”

  She felt his lips curve against her cheek. “I don’t come from the Upper East Side, lady. There’s no such thing as a family name where I’m from.”

  “Why’d he pick that car part?”

  “I think he hammered out some dents in one the afternoon I was born. My mom couldn’t be bothered to name me so he took it on himself to do it. One time he mentioned he thought it’d be funny to say it, and the hospital went and wrote it down.”

  She heard the words—the casual brush-off of something deeply personal as a name—and fought the sudden drop in her stomach. She wanted to ask more—wanted to probe a bit more deeply—but his breathing evened out at her ear. He’d already fallen asleep.

  So she kept her thoughts to herself, not even sure if he knew he’d hit a chord. A big one.

  A birth mother who didn’t care about naming him, and a father who thought a car part made a fitting moniker? That was what he came from?

  With startling clarity, all he’d told her earlier in the evening came back to her, the images shifting and aligning in new ways as she considered what had shaped and made him. He gave Louisa Mills immeasurable credit, but Harlow suspected he didn’t give enough of it to himself.

  He’d made his life. Made his choices and built his future, step-by-step. Louisa might have changed the foundation—made it stronger and sturdier—but he’d been the one to do the hard work.

  Did he have any idea how impressive that was? Or how rare? She’d spent her life around people—ones the world typically classified as ambitious—and most had followed paths carved out for them. Fender had found his own.

  The only question left, to her mind, was if she was meant to be a part of that path. Or not.

  * * *

  Trent Blackstone scanned the text again and shoved his phone in his pocket. He had a job the next day and had finally been given the details. “’Bout time,” he muttered to himself before reaching for the fresh beer he’d pulled off the scarred dresser.

  The crappy motel room was costing him a pretty penny, but he knew he was going to get a decent payoff for tomorrow’s job, and he wasn’t quite ready to show up at Fender’s yet. His son had always been ungrateful, and he wasn’t expecting a big welcome. He needed to plan his arrival, figure out an angle.

  He also wanted a few more days to nose around. Rumors had been flying that Fender had himself a snazzy new girlfriend. A few people saw them at Gino’s the week before and then again Friday night at the End Zone. He’d have gone over to look around himself, but Nick Kelley was an asshole about who he let into his bar. Add on that the ungrateful loser probably charged a mint for his drinks, and Trent would get his details through other channels.

  Damn, a lot had changed in the neighborhood. Things had gotten way more fancy. Even the bodega where he picked up the beer had classed itself up. They had a gourmet deli and craft fucking beers.

  What the fuck? Didn’t anyone drink Budweiser anymore? He’d found it, shoved at the far end of the cooler, behind colorful longnecks and beer descriptions like shandy, summer ale, and tangerine wheat.

  Damn yuppies. Or whatever the hell they were called nowadays. Hipsters?

  He’d had ’em in Ohio, too, but in smaller doses. Somehow Brooklyn had become a goddamned professional wasteland. And it sure was different since he ran the neighborhood with Fish and Bones. There was a coffee shop, a boutique, and even a freaking senior center in place of the old warehouse where he used to go when he wanted to drag a mark somewhere quiet to rough him up. Even the park had cleaned up. There was a time no one went anywhere near it as early as dusk. Tonight he walked through around eleven and couldn’t even score a joint.

  What had happened to Park Heights?

  The vague thought that he should have looked for some action somewhere else nagged at him, but he ignored it. He was here now, he’d do what he’d come to do.

  Tagging the kid was on his list.

  With a swig of his beer, Trent settled into the crummy mattress in the rent-a-room and pulled up the details on the next day’s job. It was a classic rough up, and he’d be in and out in ten minutes if he moved in fast and low.

  Which he’d do, since he needed the money and he wasn’t interested in standing there hearing some scumbag’s sob story. As far as he figured, you asked for a loan at sixty percent, you paid up when the money came due. If not, you got a rough up. Those were the rules.

  He’d never been big on rules himself, but he was more than happy to make others follow them.

  Flipping to the browser on his phone, he tapped in “Blackstone’s Auto Body” and waited for the results to load. He tapped the About Us page, saw his kid’s face come up. Something warmed his chest. It could have been pride, but it faded quickly when he saw the Jag on the rack behind the kid’s head.

  He’d clearly passed on his skills if Fender was running himself a shop. But where Trent had never picked up the advanced skills to handle luxury cars, the kid had.

  Trent had hung around enough shops in his life, picking up odd jobs there, that he knew the sort of money those places raked in, especially the ones who could do the high-end cars. He turned off the phone and laid it on the end table, his gaze shifting to the droning TV in the corner. SportsCenter was on—again—but he ignored it as he thought through his angle with Fender.

  And the personal sob story he was going to cook up for his son.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Five o’clock might come at the same time each morning, but it seemed earlier today, like a thief determined to take something from him. Somewhere during the night Fender had resolved what he had to do—wake up and leave Harlow—but he wanted another half hour wrapped up in her.

  So it was a surprise to reach out and find the space next to him in bed was empty.

  It was still dark outside, August already having begun the march toward shorter days, but he wasn’t sure where she was. The shower wasn’t running in the bathroom that connected to her bedroom, nor did he hear any movement in the apartment. Coming fully awake, he got up, curious to know where she was.

  He snagged the sheet free from the foot of the bed and wrapped himself in it, padding from the room. He’d been so focused on her when they’d made their trip to the bedroom he hadn’t looked at much of the apartment, so he corrected that now.

  The space was large—he estimated at least two thousand square feet—and in addition to her bedroom held a second guest room and a small bedroom that she’d turned into an office. That’s where he found her, curled up on a chaise lounge, flipping through pages on her tablet underneath a small reading lamp.

  “Did I wake you?” She glanced up from the iPad, her smile reserved and still a little sleepy.

  “Not at all. How long have you been up?”

  “About an hour.”

  An hour? She left the bed an hour ago and he hadn’t felt it? Fender had no idea why that made something swirl in his gut, but he tried to push it aside before it opened up like a crater. He had no rig
ht to swirl about anything, and it wasn’t like she was required to be a snuggler.

  He’d never been.

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Thinking. Trying to read and failing miserably, so I’ve been playing mindless games.”

  That pit in his stomach swirled harder. “You didn’t have to get out of bed.”

  “It’s not a good idea to get used to things you can’t have. That’s the thought I came awake on, so I figured I should do something about it.”

  He could hardly argue with her logic—hadn’t he just thought the same?—yet something about her making the move first sparked something. “Look, if you want me to go, I’ll go.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You might as well have.” He fisted the sheet he’d bunched closed in his palm even harder, his fingers nearly going numb. “I get it.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  “Riddles at five in the morning?”

  “No riddles, just the truth. The dumb, stupid truth that neither of us wants to face.” She stood, the oversized T-shirt with a Mona Lisa on the front that she wore falling to her knees. “That’s why I’m hiding in here, and why you’re standing there getting mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Sure you are. So am I. I’m mad this even started. Worse, I’m pissed that you came into my life only to be dragged away. If we hated each other or sucked in bed or things just fizzled out, that’d be on us. But that hasn’t happened. Circumstances we didn’t make are what happened, and I’m fucking hacked off about it.”

  She didn’t sugarcoat the truth, and that went a long way toward easing the tension. “Have you been mind-melding with me from down the hall or did you come to that one all on your own?”

  “My own.”

  “Just checking. Because the sex was amazing, and it’s possible quite a few brain cells leached out while I slept. Made me vulnerable to mental attack.”

  “You can keep your gray matter. Mine’s been busy enough this morning.”

  He reached for her, tugging at the soft cotton of her T-shirt to pull her close. She went willingly, wrapping her arms around his waist and fitting herself against his chest. Once more, he was struck by how small she was and, in the quiet of early morning, how fragile she felt in his arms.