Unspoken Words

by K. M. Golland

  “I’ll be back.”

  “When?”

  “WHEN IT’S RIGHT,” I cried.

  He stalked toward me, heat flaring his eyes as his hands captured my face and his lips smashed against mine. I stumbled back with the force, but his arm secured me, strong and familiar. Heat flooded my body and erupted like a volcano, the taste of him no longer a memory I’d desperately tried not to forget.

  Not that I ever could.

  But I did forget to breathe.

  And just like that, Connor Bourke once again stole my air.

  Gasping, I broke the kiss, my eyes locked with his, our chests rising and falling. “What are you doing?”

  “You once said I could always kiss you, whenever, wherever.”

  I cupped my hand over his cheek. “That was a long time ago.”

  “But you’re my ever after, Ellie,” he pleaded.

  Searching his eyes, I let out a sob and fisted my hand in his hair, pulling him back to my mouth. Pleasure and pain hit me at once and I realised that was Connor, that he made me feel the best and the worst and everything in between because he was everything I’d ever known. Love. Tears. Home. Hope. I’d been starved of them all, starved of him, and for four years, I’d yearned a boy and now craved the man.

  Connor hoisted me into his arms, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my back pressed against the wall, his hand braced beside my head.

  He groaned, long and guttural, and held me there as his hips rocked into mine, his body hard, his erection harder.

  Pleasure shot to my core, and I moaned his name, my head falling back against the wall, my breathing ragged and heavy. Connor trailed his mouth down my neck, nipping, kissing and sucking his way to my collarbone before he wrenched my blouse open.

  “Fuuuuuck, Ellie,” he said, almost painfully. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  He splayed his hand just below my throat and slowly dragged it down my chest to cup my breast, gently squeezing. I cried out and bucked my hips against him, needing the friction, needing the relief. But it wasn’t until he slid his finger beneath the lace of my bra, pulled it aside and took my nipple into his mouth, that both fire and ice burned every inch of my body.

  “I’ve missed you too,” I breathed out. “Every day.”

  He released my nipple and moved to the other one.

  “On the days I wanted to and on the days I didn’t want to, I still missed you.”

  His mouth found mine again, this time more aggressive, more possessive, hot, wet, salty and sweet.

  “I need you, baby,” he murmured. “All of you.”

  “Oh God, I need you too.”

  I reached down to the buckle of his jeans, fumbling as I frantically unlatched it and took his hot, hard length into my hand. We both moaned as I clenched him then slowly dragged my hand up and down, pumping him.

  Connor pushed my skirt up my thighs, yanked my panties aside, and rubbed his thumb over my clit while sliding two fingers inside.

  I cried out, stars bursting behind my closed eyes.

  “So fucking wet, baby.”

  He slid them out again, in and out, in and out, until I was panting, my hand still on his cock, my eyes heavy with lust.

  Connor stopped and held my gaze, and it was all too much.

  “This is wrong,” I whimpered, my hands holding his face.

  He pressed his hand over my beating heart. “Does this feel wrong to you?”

  I shook my head, tears streaming down my cheeks. “No, but it is.”

  “Our hearts don’t lie, baby. What’s yours telling you?”

  “It’s scared.”

  “And?”

  I reached between us and positioned his cock between my legs, flexing my hips and pushing him inside. “And this.”

  Connor matched my motion, both of us grinding into one another, my body stretching around him and holding him as if he was meant to be held by no one else but me.

  His fingers clenched my thighs, and every muscle in his arms and neck tensed. I braced my hands on his shoulders as heat once again climbed my body, my core tightening as my orgasm hit. Connor thrust hard and deep, spilling everything he had into me, and that was when I realised we hadn’t used protection. Shit!

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his head resting against mine, his breathing slow but course.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  He pulled back, pain radiating from his misty eyes. “For what?”

  “For everything. For us, for wanting you, for not letting you go when I should. For … for leaving.”

  His eyes held mine for what could’ve been minutes or seconds, I wasn’t sure, before he unhooked my legs and helped me stand.

  Connor tucked himself back into his jeans, and I excused myself and walked to the bathroom to clean up, dread, guilt, and a feeling of utter loss suffocating my every thought. Ellie, what have you done?

  I’d done what he’d said and listened to my heart despite knowing its guidance would only destroy it and the two men it loved, and now I had to do what I’d planned on doing anyway—leave.

  Walking back into the hallway, I found Connor in the spot I’d left him, his back against the wall, his head in his hands.

  “I have to go,” I said, quietly.

  He didn’t answer, so I stepped past him, figuring I’d just get it over and done with and leave.

  Connor’s hand shot out and clasped mine, stopping me. His eyes were red, his expression so full of pain I felt every single bit of it and more.

  “I have to.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I do.”

  “That’s a crock of shit, Ellie.”

  I pulled my hand free. “It’s not. Jesus. This isn’t simple and you know it.”

  “It is! You and I are the simplest thing I know. We’re effortless.”

  “You think this is effortless?”

  “Yes! But for some reason you want us to be a tragic love story. You want to wake up every day, wondering ‘what if’ like it’s the most beautiful thing to exist. It’s not. It’s fucked.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  He pulled me to him and kissed me hard then pulled away, his forehead resting against mine, his hand still in mine. “I’m real, baby. Always was and always will be.”

  Sobbing, I touched the side of his face. “I know you’re real. You’re the realest thing I’ve ever known.” I stepped back and let go of his hand. “But I have to go back to Darwin and make amends. I owe Byron that.”

  “And what do you owe me?” he asked, his tear-soaked eyes pleading.

  Walking to the door, I opened it, paused, and looked back. “I owe you me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Connor

  “Not again,” I choked out, sliding down the wall until I hit the ground.

  I looked at the door, waiting, hoping it would open and she would walk back in, but she didn’t. She was gone. Again. What if she doesn’t return? What if that’s our final goodbye?

  I couldn’t let this happen, Byron or no Byron. And I couldn’t make the same mistake I’d made when she left four years ago. Back then I’d had Lilah to worry about, not to mention the weight of the world on my shoulders as I stared down the barrel of fatherhood. I’d barely had to grapple with morality, unlike now. Do I go after her? But then what? She’ll leave anyway.

  Ellie said she needed to ‘make things right’ and ‘sort it out’ with Byron. But what did that mean? Did it mean she had to end it between them and pack her things to come back to Melbourne, or did it mean she had to continue to pretend I didn’t exist and beg him for forgiveness, to say yes and marry him after all?

  My stomach lurched, and I felt sick. I needed water and air, or better yet, a bottle of Jim Beam and my guitar.

  Standing up, I headed to the kitchen, opened the liquor cupboard above the fridge, and pulled down an unopened bottle of Bourbon. I hadn’t drowned my sorrows since Max was born because he was my light when times were dark, and focussing on him
and his wellbeing was the perfect distraction.

  But not today. Today, there was no distraction, no answer, no ever after. Today, there was only Jim and me.

  Filling my glass, I latched onto the bottle and headed outside, taking a seat under the pergola, the sun shining through the clear fibreglass roof, the amber liquid burning just as fierce.

  I stretched back and closed my eyes to visions of Ellie and her perfect, angelic smile. She was everything I’d ever wanted and needed. Kind. Funny. Smart. And the way she’d been with Max, how’d she calmed him at the hospital and subsequently calmed me … fuck, she’d make a great mother and wife—a wife to Byron and mother to their kids.

  My eyes shot open, and I skolled the contents of my glass, slamming it down and pouring another.

  “Fuck that shit,” I said, taking another long drink.

  The sound of a bouncing basketball snapped my attention, and I turned toward my neighbour’s house, the orange ball heading in my direction.

  “Excuse me, Mr,” a kid called out, his head popping up on the other side of the fence. “Can you please throw my basketball back?”

  I looked at it and then at him, memories of Ellie telling me to throw it back to her as vivid as if it were yesterday. “Take the shot,” I heard her say, followed by Aaron. “Yeah, take the shot.”

  Blinking, I looked back at the kid.

  “My ball, it’s just there.” He pointed at it.

  “Sure,” I said, standing up to fetch his ball.

  I bent down and picked it up, the feel of leather on my skin no longer painful, and bounced it once, twice, three times before throwing it back.

  The kid caught it and smiled. “Thanks.”

  “No worries.”

  Relief and realisation hit me like a bus, the impact sudden. The ball, holding on and letting go … it was all relevant. Ellie had once said, “What’s gone isn’t gone until you let it slip away”, and she was right; we controlled the release—we always do. The choice of what we held tight and what we let slip away was always ours, and I sure as hell wasn’t letting her slip away this time.

  Grabbing my phone, I dialled her number and waited for her to answer, but she didn’t. “Stubborn McFucking Stubborn Head,” I seethed, tossing my phone back onto the table.

  I looked at my car keys, my fingers trembling as I deliberated driving while calculating what I’d drunk and how quickly. “Shit!” I’d had too much and couldn’t risk getting behind the wheel. I was stupid but not that stupid.

  “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” I roared, taking off down the driveway. I’d run if I had to, even if her parent’s house was a ten-minute drive away.

  Breathing heavily and dripping with sweat, I didn’t stop running until I was hunched over at Beth and Roger’s front door, almost too exhausted to knock. But I kept knocking and knocking until my hand hit air when Chris opened the door.

  His face blared fury until he looked down and found me nearly dying.

  “Where is she?” I panted.

  “Not here.”

  “What do you mean not here?”

  “Exactly what I said. You fucked up and she’s gone.”

  He must’ve noticed the sheer look of confusion running off my slick, shiny face.

  “The airport.” He glanced at his watch. “Her plane takes off in thirty minutes.”

  “What?”

  “But she just left my house … ” I did a quick calculation but fucked if I knew when she’d left. “FUCK!” I kicked the brick wall and regretted it instantly.

  Chris disappeared inside and returned moments later, two beers in his hand. “Sit,” he ordered and pointed toward the outdoor couch on their porch.

  “Thanks.” I took the beer and did as I was told, moving a cushion and surrendering on my arse. “I’ve lost her. Again.”

  “Don’t count your eggs before they’ve hatched.”

  “What?” I was fairly sure he’d just fucked that up.

  “I said don’t count your eggs before they’ve hatched. In other words, sit tight and let Elliephant do what she needs to do.”

  “And what’s that exactly?”

  “Rid her life of Morons.”

  I shook my head. “What?” Maybe I’d drunk more than I thought.

  “If she loves you like I think she does, she’ll be back here quicker than you can say Jackoff.”

  Again, I was fairly sure Chris had fucked that up. “She loved me last time and she didn’t come back.”

  “Yeah, because you broke her heart, and because she didn’t want you to choose her over your son.”

  “But … but I wouldn’t have—”

  “Back then, yeah, you would’ve, and she knew that. There’s no way Ellie would allow herself to come between you and Max. Ever.” He took a long draw from his can. “But things are different now. You’re not with Lilah anymore and you have room for Max and Ellie in your life.”

  “I do. I definitely do.”

  “Plus, she wants to move back here.”

  “She said that?”

  “She didn’t have to. She misses me. I can tell.”

  I laughed.

  Chris cocked an eyebrow and skolled more beer.

  “Should I fly up there, go after her?”

  “No. Just … make sure she knows how you feel. Tell her, but then let her do what she needs to do.”

  I nodded. I just hoped it would be enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ellie

  People came into our life all the time. They came and they went, and they left their mark. Sometimes, that mark was subtle and, sometimes, it was more intense. But then, sometimes, if we were lucky, a person came along and marked our existence so profoundly we felt as if the earth had shifted from its axis, and the affinity shared was so overpowering it stole the air from our lungs. Sometimes, we met a person who left us breathless and, for me, that person was Connor.

  Not Byron.

  Dabbing my eyes with a tissue, I blew my nose then repositioned my sunglasses. “Are you okay, Miss?”

  I blinked, finding the taxi driver’s concerned stare in the rearview mirror. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “If you need an extra minute, I’ve got time.”

  “No no, I’m good. There’s no point delaying the inevitable, right?”

  “I guess.”

  Opening the taxi door, I climbed out and met the driver at the back of the vehicle. “You must see this all the time,” I said, forcing a small laugh.

  “Well, yes.” He removed my two suitcases and extended their handles. “But it’s usually the other way around. People are sad to leave, not to come home.”

  I stared up at the five-storey residential unit tower I lived in with Byron. It was his unit or, more accurately, his parent’s unit. But it had been my home for the past year after moving from my dingy one-bedroom dump that, funnily enough, had felt more like home than the one I was about to walk into.

  “This isn’t my home,” I said, before sucking in a deep breath.

  “Oh. I just assumed.”

  Smiling, I paid him cash and wheeled my cases along the path that lead to the front of the building, six tall palm trees flanking me on both sides. I stopped and admired them for a moment before punching my residential occupier code into the security pad. The unlock tone beeped, so I pushed down on the lever handle with my elbow and nudged it open with my hip, walking backwards while pulling my cases through.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  I spun around at the sound of Byron’s voice and bumped my head on his outstretched arm, knocking my sunglasses from my face.

  “Shit!” I bent down to pick them up, but Byron beat me to it, both us crouched at the knee.

  “I’m sorry, Elle. I was on the phone when your cab arrive—” he paused when his eyes landed on my face. “You’ve been crying.”

  Avoiding his gaze, I stood up, took my sunglasses from him, and placed them back on my head. “Yeah.”

  He was quiet for a moment
then took my suitcases from me.

  “Thank you.”

  “How was your flight?”

  “Fine.” I forced another smile. “I had a row of seats all to myself.”

  “If you’d let me buy your ticket, you could’ve sat in business class—”

  “Byron, I didn’t need to fly business class.”

  “I know you didn’t need to. I just thought it would’ve been nicer.”

  “I know. And thank you, that’s very sweet.”

  He nodded, and we entered the elevator, standing side by side, neither one of us making the effort to touch or kiss. His body language mirrored my own: unsure, undecipherable … uncomfortable.

  “I haven’t cooked anything for dinner. Thought maybe you’d like to go out?”

  Going out was the last thing I wanted to do, so I scrunched my nose and shook my head. “Actually, I’d rather not if that’s okay. I’m not really hungry. I ate some nibblies on the plane.”

  “Of course. Sure.”

  The doors slid open, and he gestured I exit first, so I stepped out and headed down the hallway, stopping at his apartment door.

  Fishing through my bag for my key, he pulled out his instead and unlocked the door to let us in.

  The apartment, as always, was pristine, not a thing out of place; display home tidy. A hint of vanilla dispersed from a flickering oil burner on the coffee table and a fresh bunch of white lilies branched from a vase atop the dining room table.

  “They’re lovely,” I said, pointing to the centrepiece as I kicked off my shoes. “Did Ava bring them round?”

  “Yeah.”

  I picked up the mail stacked on the bench and started flicking through it. Ava was our friend from university who worked at the florist down the street. She knew Byron—and I—liked fresh flowers in the apartment so would drop by with a bunch every now and again.

  “How is she?” I asked, placing down the letters. They could wait. From what I could see, there was nothing important.

  “Good. I think. She thought you’d like new flowers to come home to.”

  There was that word again, home. It slapped me like a cold fish, unpleasant and cold.