14. Hunter

FOURTEEN

HUNTER

I know I'm making a grave, horrible, terrible mistake as soon as our lips touch.

Not because she should be off limits.

Not because she is too good to wrap herself up with someone like me.

But because as soon as her lips touch mine, the most precise voice I've ever heard screams into my consciousness:

This one is yours.

I press into her, and the taste of her citrusy lip balm and that unique taste I determine is all Winter Leigh Vaughan explodes on my tongue. I need more.

I crave her.

My hands go to her cheeks, and she presses her hands against my chest before grasping a fistful of my shirt.

And then my undoing happens when she shyly presses her tongue against the seam of my lips.

"Winter," I say, reluctant to break away from her.

"H, I—" She presses her lips against mine again, and I walk her toward the tree next to us. Her back hits the bark of the Virginia pine, and I groan when she moans against my mouth .

This one is yours.

Our mouths are a tangle of lips and tongues and teeth, and her hands roam over my chest and shoulders. I rub my hand down her side, pushing my palm over the fabric on her stomach to cup right beneath her breast.

She further damns me to hell when her leg bends at the knee, the action causing her pelvis to tilt and press right against my erection.

I grab her thigh and press against her more, and her groan turns into a whimper. I can't help but rock against her. My dick is eager for the promise of the heaven I'll find when I sink into her.

She's riding my thigh, and with her rose scent and the natural version around us, her movements are liable to drive me insane.

This one is yours.

I allow myself to fantasize about the things I've only allowed space for in my unspoken thoughts. For years the desire has been a general yearning, but now, everything transforms into a concrete vision: Winter in my bed. Winter in my home with August. August and I being father and son. August accepting and forgiving me. The three of us laughing with Ella on warm summer nights with my new, growing family around me. All of us living a peaceful life filled with Christmases and birthdays and happy kids that look like the perfect blend of both Winter and me.

All of the shit I've been running from for decades will cease to exist. I'm free to love and live.

With one hand, I feel the rise and fall of her ribs beneath the supple skin of her midsection, and my other roams to grab a handful of her plush ass.

She presses against me harder, and a long groan comes from her throat. I rock against her, and she acts as a counterpoint. The press of my black jeans against my cock is rough, bordering on painful, but I won't stop for anything in the world.

I'm lost to her.

Winter.

Our movements become even more frantic, and I ghost my hand over her ample breast. She gasps into my mouth when I palm it, squeezing to feel the weight of it. The gumdrop nipple I've been fantasizing about ever since I saw her dripping wet in my fountain presses against my palm. I bring it between two of my fingers, squeezing her breast and rolling the flesh with precision.

"Hunter…" Her voice is breathless, and I grin against her lips.

Perfect.

I go back to kissing her, inhaling her, and the hand on her ass moves up her side and to the back of her neck. With one hand on her breast, I use the other to cradle her head. She rocks faster and faster against my thigh, and I move against her until her muscles tighten, and she's screaming in release.

She breaks our kiss, panting.

As am I.

Her eyes snap closed, but I take in every feature of her face. The gentle smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her long lashes. The upturned shape of her eyes. The soft, plump lips that are now even more pronounced from our kissing.

For the first time in my life, I want to be gentle with a woman—to release the need to control everything about our interaction. This desire is foreign, completely different from what I'm used to.

And yet, I need to be safe for her.

I lean in to kiss her again, raining fragile pecks across her eyes, cheeks, and lips.

"Wait," she says, turning her head away from me.

I cradle my head into her neck, freezing in the position .

We're pressed together so completely that our breaths sync. When she breathes out, I breathe in.

This one is yours .

"Hunter. Mr.Brigham." She pulls away from me and lowers her leg. She places her soft hand against my chest to push me back a few steps. "This isn't…this isn't right." She doesn't look at me.

"I'm so unprofessional. This is unprofessional. I should?—"

I cut her off, my voice soft despite the inferno raging beneath my skin.

"Stop. Stop, Winter." I place my hands on her shoulders, sliding them up to cradle her cheeks. "It's all right. I promise it will be fine."

"It is so not fine. This crosses all kinds of boundaries. I—I have to go." She walks around me, rushing to scoop up her bag, yelling commands at Kitty to follow. She bolts to the garden door, determined to go back through the house.

After she passes through the doorframe, I unlock my muscles to run after her. I catch up with her in the foyer.

"Winter, wait. Goddamnit ," I swear at myself, and she freezes when I utter the word.

Breaths saw in and out of her chest as if she's run a marathon.

"Wait, I'm not angry at you, I…" I don't know what to say. It's probably as confusing for her as it is for me. All I do know, with crystal certainty, is that Winter Vaughan and I are fated to collide.

I just hope we both survive the crash.

I take one step closer to her and then another and then another until I press against her back.

She trembles.

"Are you scared, Winter?" I ask, placing my hands on her shoulders. I so want to pull her back to me. To hold her close.

"Of you?" She makes a grim sound in her throat. "No, I'm not afraid of you. "

I bring my face close to her ear, and the floral scent is strongest near her neck. "Then what are you afraid of, Sunbeam?"

She inhales sharply but then is silent.

"Nothing." She goes silent again. "Everything."

And with that, she walks out the front door.

I stand in the foyer for what could be minutes or hours.

It's not until Leo's hand claps on my shoulder that I stop staring at my front door.

"H. You good, brother?"

No, I'm not good. I've never been good. And I'm certainly not all right.

"Could you make sure Winter and Kitty get home safe?" I say and head toward my office.

My mind is not clear; it's a jumble of thoughts. The only one I can pull out of all of them is:

This one is yours.

And that fucks me more than anything in the world.

I sit in my office for far too long after Winter leaves. My body wants me to drink or hit something until either option forces me to lose consciousness. I don't do either. Instead, I pore over the financial records for BwP's last fiscal year. There's no real need for my inquiry except this:

Gives me something to do, and numbers are my singular strong suit.

Will give me a head start on understanding the outsourcing scheme the VP was going on about in last week's meeting.

…I don't know what I can say for the third point .

As I said, there's no real need for the activity.

I run my hands through my hair, staring at the double monitors in front of me as I analyze the success of our last funding round. The same funding round our investors are getting antsy about with the delays to Project Panacea.

My phone rings, which startles me for two reasons. One, it's the landline I never use and honestly didn't know was actually hooked up to anything. Two, there is no one on this earth who I expect to have the number.

My hand hovers over the phone for a moment before I pick it up.

"Brigham," I say shortly.

"Hunter Brigham, a pleasure to connect," says an unmistakably Slavic voice. I pause.

"Hroshko," I say.

"Tak," he confirms.

"I was expecting to speak with you, but I was not anticipating you calling my home office," I say. I'm on guard because I'm off guard. His communication to this point has been with Leo. And now he's calling me?

"Well, I wanted to discuss an important issue with you regarding your father," he says.

I balk. "Clearly, you're not worried about this line being secure," I say.

"Of course I'm not worried," he says simply.

Well, okay then.

"Your father has made some people very, very mad," Misha says.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Some people believe that it would be better if someone else were to…take the reins, as you may put it."

"I see," I reply. I feel no emotion toward this conversation, which is only a curious observation. It dawns on me, and not for the first time, that any affection or loyalty I might have had toward my father burned away when I was a teenager .

"It has come to my attention that this may be something you also would be interested in, seeing as his behaviors have impacted you in multiple ways." Shit, this man knows everything about everything. He probably knows how long my dick is too.

"Anything is possible," I say back.

"Hmmm," he says. "That is interesting. There are some things you may have access to that will make this process easier," he says. Now he's talking in riddles.

But I wouldn't dare express confusion to a person like Misha Hroshko.

"I see," I say again. "Perhaps this is a discussion better suited for in person," I say smoothly. My only reason is to buy some time.

Always with buying fucking time.

He hums again. "I suppose so. Well, this transition is anticipated to happen very quickly, as more parcels will be impacted if there is a delay."

Parcels. He means humans. Women, children. I've known my father has dealt in human trafficking. And at the end of my time with him, I knew he was getting into even darker shit.

At least Misha sounds disapproving.

"Got it," I say hoarsely.

"But I agree, a meeting is in order," he says. "I'll be in touch." He hangs up.

The phone doesn't even emit a dial tone—it's silent in my hand. I return it to its cradle, dumbfounded.

I've been contacted. Talk soon.

After sending the message to Leo, I lean back and close my eyes.

Why couldn't my father be a regular white-collar criminal and embezzle a few millions ?

My office door is open, and even in the expansiveness of the mansion, I hear the clomp-clomp of shoes hitting the stairway. Knowing it can only be one of a few people, I deduce it's likely August.

You should check on him.

I swallow against the thought. His words run through my brain at the same time.

"I was left here alone like trash. I am trash to them. And to everybody in the world," he said. And even the comedy of the accent echoing from his tablet couldn't soften the blow of the raw truth in his words.

I am a piece of shit.

I know this about myself. I haven't cared much about many people in my life, but when I'm able to be honest with myself—truly honest—the people I care about, I care about deeply.

Ella.

Leo.

Mom.

…and August.

The day he was born truly changed me, no matter how cliché that sounds. Maiya and I weren't communicating at the time. I didn't show up for her labor and delivery, not that she wanted me there. From what she told me the last time we'd spoken, all I needed to do was send the checks on time for our son. I was a terrible person to Maiya.

I can admit that now.

Sit in that shit, Hunter.

Before boarding my plane to California the day after August was born, I walked into the L&D ward and met my son through the glass window of the nursery. I don't think Maiya or anyone else knew I was there.

I stood there for several minutes, feeling every breath enter and exit my lungs. The day before, I'd spent my time getting high and fucking different girls. Their faces are unmemorable.

But when I looked at August, I felt several things simultaneously. I felt the responsibility of having created a life. An entire human being that carries twenty-three of my chromosomes. I felt regret that I'd been so reckless in how he came to be. I felt guilt that I wasn't a better person to his mother. I felt fear at the knowledge that I'd ultimately taint this perfect person on the other side of the glass—that his proximity to me, my affection for him, would ultimately be his death sentence.

Just like my mom.

There wasn't a doubt in any part of my soul that the best thing for August would be to provide him with as much as I could—as much as would befit a Brigham—and stay the fuck away.

If it didn't seem like I valued him, my father would ignore his presence.

It felt like the safest option, even though the logic was flawed. I deeply regret that choice.

Because the years I spent wasting away my life doing drugs and chasing meaningless relationships came at the cost of knowing my son.

I've hurt him significantly. It's idiotic that I couldn't see this outcome when I decided to walk away—that I couldn't see that August might…need me.

"Others might have made different decisions, but yours are yours to live with, Hunter." Winter's voice rings through my brain, and I fight against a new wave of regret.

I put my head in my hands.

I can't do anything about Winter, at least, not tonight. But I can do something about August.

Atonement.

I move to the kitchen where I hear dishes clinking together. When I round the corner, he puts two Eggo waffles in the toaster. He stands in the dark, swaying slightly while he waits for them to warm.

"You missed dinner," I say softly, not wanting to startle him. He jumps anyway. Spinning around, he jerks his hands up toward his ears, clasping them over the sides of his head once he spots me. I stand still for a moment, giving him time to acclimate to my presence.

When the Eggos pop out of the toaster a few minutes later, he removes his hands and finally grabs his tablet.

"Yes, I went for a walk." He grabs a plate, preparing his Eggos. Instead of walking back to his room with them as I expect him to, he turns to place his plate on the island. His tablet is next to it.

"You heard my session with Winter." This is more a statement than a question.

"I heard a little bit of it," I say. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop."

"I have the right to privacy in my therapy sessions," he says matter-of-factly.

"Yes, you do," I say, nodding in agreement. "I won't listen in again," I promise him.

He doesn't react to my statement. Instead, he proceeds to cut his Eggos into perfect squares along the natural score lines of each waffle.

"What's it about Eggo waffles that you like so much?" I ask him, trying to settle on a safe topic.

"They are the same every time," he says. "Homestyle Eggos are the same wherever. The size is always the same. The texture is always the same. I like predictability."

"What would happen if you were to try a homemade waffle? Or one from a restaurant?" I ask.

He gives me a brief, droll look, his gaze landing in the vicinity of my left shoulder, before rolling his eyes and putting a square into his mouth.

"No syrup or butter either?" I ask him .

"I do not have to explain my preferences. Asking is rude." He glides his fingers over the tablet, and I hold my hands up in apology.

I'm batting a thousand, and I'm just talking about some goddamn waffles. "I'm sorry," I say.

He continues to eat.

Atone.

"August," I say. My voice is low, and I feel like my throat is closing—an itchy, tingling sensation that causes me to wonder if the next breath I take will be my last.

"I am so sorry," I say. I stare at him, willing him to give me some sign that he's accepting where I'm trying to take the conversation.

Where I'm trying to take our relationship.

He just continues to eat, popping square after square into his mouth.

"Okay," he finally says. I feel my shoulders drop. He doesn't say any more.

"I am going to bed," he says after he puts his empty plate into the sink.

"Goodnight, son," I say to his retreating back. He stops, and his shoulders rise.

"Do not call me that. Ever." He doesn't turn to look at me.

Then he walks away.

And I'm left standing in the dark.