Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Beau’s hands replaced mine, then he rolled my panties and pants off before making quick work of his own.
“Let me savor you.” Beau let out a rough growl when he bent his head between my legs, inhaling. “Just for a moment.”
What could I say?
I let him. His mouth worked quickly, expertly, hungrily. Until I was right at the edge, until he was about to split me apart.
Then he stopped, quickly moving up my body. My heart beat furiously, with urgency as I pulled him down on top of me, needing his heat, his weight. I chose to ignore the dull ache in my chest that came from my rapid heartbeat, leftover bruising. From the shooting or the heartbreak, who could know.
Beau carefully hovered over me.
“I’m not going to break,” I moaned, clawing at his back as his cock pressed into my entrance.
“I know how strong you are,” he murmured. “I know what you can take.”
He pushed inside, slow at first, testing, stretching, driving me wild. Then it was quick. Both of us were unable to go slow, both of us worried for Clara, desperate for each other.
It was a hungry, rushed reconciling. But I came fast, hard, filled with Beau.
I meant what I’d said. We had a lifetime. It’d be complicated, to be sure. There were things to hammer out. But it was us. We were back.
Despite the haste of moments before, Beau lingered inside me afterward, his eyes exploring every inch of my face.
“I’ll never hurt you again,” he promised.
I smiled sadly. “You might. Because love is messy. But never give up on us again?”
Agony stretched across his face. “Never.”
thirty-three
HANNAH
TWO MONTHS LATER
We didn’t heal immediately or snap back to the way we were before. There were scars. One of them running down the middle of my chest, above my heart, evidence of the physical injury as well as the emotional one.
I forgave Beau. I even understood his reasoning. Then I remembered Calliope’s words in the car that night.
About him inevitably fucking things up. She had seen it. And if I was honest with myself, so had I. I didn’t miss the comments about the age, the faraway look he’d sometimes get in his eye when I mentioned the future, the jobs I’d get around Jupiter to accommodate his and Clara’s schedule.
He’d convinced himself that I was sacrificing too much, that he was taking too much. He’d made a shitty decision, letting the words of another man shape his choices. But his heart was always mine.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t angry with him. Now, my first instinct was not to protect my heart—no pun intended. Like Clara, I was suffering from PTSD from being shot by my ex-husband and from the bone-chilling fear that he’d take her too. Not just that but from all my hopes and dreams disappearing in one conversation. My life yet again decided by a man.
Beau would never say it out loud, but he was mad at himself too. I didn’t miss the way his eyes glazed over sometimes when we were doing something benign, his knuckles whitening from the force he was clenching them, his entire body stiffening.
Sometimes I had to touch him to get his attention. And that was usually a last resort because when I did, he would violently jerk then stare at me, unseeing, for a few seconds.
The way he made love to me now was frenzied. Intense. He’d do it with his eyes locked onto mine, staring at me like he feared if he blinked, I’d melt away.
Which was better than how it started, him hesitant, terrified that he’d hurt me.
Clara’s nightmares had greatly improved. Some nights she slept in her own bed. Other nights, on bad nights, she didn’t. She didn’t ask to go to the park. We avoided driving past it, and she held on to my hand for dear life when we were in public places. Finn had even escorted us to the first few outings we had.
Elliot, Calliope, and Beau’s father were around constantly. As were the rest of the women in Jupiter, bringing their children to play with Clara. She’d have days where she was reserved, quiet, almost sullen. It hurt my chest more than any bullet ever could. I carried a lot of guilt over that day. For suggesting meeting in the park, for not noticing Waylon sooner. For marrying him in the first place.
Beau’s guilt was a monstrous thing, invisible except for the way he moved, as if one thousand pounds of it were perched on his shoulders.
We were all in therapy. Which was needed not just to address the trauma of the event but my childhood, Beau’s experience with his mother, then Clara’s illness. He hadn’t put up a fight when I cautiously suggested it. Then again, Beau did most of the things I asked of him.