The Morning After

The Morning After

I didn’t call Tahiti as I pushed Jameson backward into the bedroom. I didn’t say that magic word as I pushed him down onto the bed. I didn’t say it as I straddled him.

I didn’t say it as he turned the tables and flipped me over onto the bed.

The blood. The smell of smoke in his hair. I have a secret.

I could have forced the issue, but I didn’t. I wasn’t going to—not now, not ever. Because sometimes loving a person meant trusting them. Sometimes it meant taking a no even when you knew there was a way to get a yes . Sometimes it meant knowing that what he needed mattered more than what you wanted.

I wanted answers. He needed me not to ask.

“If you’re going to say it,” Jameson repeated hoarsely, “say it.”

I surged upward. Kissing him was like unleashing a tidal wave, a hurricane, a wall of fire—power and heat and more .

“Like the sun and the moon,” I said, my lips on his, his every breath ripping through me, the touch of our skin electric. “I loved him.”

Jameson looked at me like I was the force of nature. Like I was the mystery for the ages. Like he could spend a lifetime solving me .

“Avery.” My name escaped his lips. “Heiress.”

For better or worse, this was us.

Us.

Us.

Us.