Chapter 20

TWENTY

Lennon's screams immediately wake me up. My eyes snap open and I'm gasping for air when my head jerks away from my pillow. My back is turned on him, but I immediately feel him stiffening behind me.

I quickly roll over. His back is facing me now, and he's curled in on himself. The sharp planes and ridges of solid muscle strain against his tattooed skin. I swallow my panic when he releases another scream.

"Lennon," I whisper, pulling him to face me. But he doesn't move. He's frozen solid. A statue. I sit up and lean over him, urging him to turn around. The death grip he has on his pillow is merciless. White-knuckled, he clutches his pillow as if it is the only thing keeping him afloat.

I say his name again, but this time it comes out quivering and unstable. The blood drains from my face. I'm lost and confused as to what's happening. The veins in his neck are swollen, and his jaw is clenched tight.

"What's wrong?" I ask, tugging on his arm again, but he still doesn't answer. He doesn't flinch at my touch. The screams eventually stop after a few seconds of my hand on his arm. At first, I wonder if he's fallen back asleep. His hand still grips the pillow. I lean over him farther, noticing his eyes blinking slowly. He's staring at the wall. But despite the quiet that's descended upon our room, Lennon's body hasn't caught up. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Heavy breaths push out of his lungs faster than he's able to take them in.

"Breathe, Lennon," I soothe him. "I'm right here. I'm here."

Oxygen catches in the back of my throat when he jolts. Twisting, he rolls over to face me. His shoulders are hunched, and for the first time ever, I see fear in his eyes. He's scared and vulnerable. It's a strange sensation. Lennon Harding commands every room he walks into. Brooding and moody, clients both fear him yet admire him.

But all I see in front of me is a man haunted by the night. Haunted by the memory of a nightmare still alive in his mind. Panic stricken eyes stare back at me.

"Tell me something good," he chokes out.

"What?" I whisper, quickly swiping my tongue across my lips. My body is humming. Wide-eyed, I look at him, not knowing what to expect.

"Tell me something good," he repeats, pleading as he places his hands around my face. "I need to hear something fucking good. Something sweet."

His breaths are shallow and rattled.

"Sweet?" I ask, my heart sinking into my stomach.

The sound of him uttering the word he'd whispered into my ear the night we met stirs something inside me. It's like a raging storm. The wind rattles between my stomach and my mind. Maybe he does remember. Maybe he remembers every single fucking second of that night as I do. Every touch. Every kiss. Every word he'd whispered that night.

I hold my breath as he pulls my face to his until our foreheads meet. His rushed hot bouts of breathing fill the tiny space between our mouths.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Please," he begs on a whisper. "I need to hear something sweet."

"Um." I scramble to think of something sweet, flipping through the catalog of memories I keep locked away. "Okay, I heard about this man in Italy who graduated from college at the age of ninety-six. He grew up poor and served in World War Two. He never expected to make it, but he finally lived out his dream of going to school. He achieved his lifelong dream."

A small smile lifts the corner of my mouth, remembering how my roommate from college told me this story one night when we were drunk and studying in the library. I'll never forget the way her face lit with pure joy at the time.

But my smile doesn't last long because Lennon still hasn't relaxed. His shoulders dramatically lift with every breath, but this time he lifts his gaze. His eyes meet mine as he runs his hands down my cheeks before feathering them along the length of my neck.

"Another one."

Seeing his desperation, I wrap both my hands around his, keeping him from pulling away. A torrent of waves float in his eyes, begging for an anchor to keep him close. I press the tips of his fingers against my pulse. I'm hoping this will bring him back to the room with me.

"The other day," I start, "I was walking down Newbury Street and saw this man holding up a cardboard sign asking for money or food. He looked like he'd been standing on that same intersection for weeks. But I found myself grinning when this woman came up to him and handed him a grocery bag and a large reusable bottle filled with water. I don't think I've ever seen someone so grateful."

Lennon's breathing slows. The effects of whatever nightmare he had is now fading. I release his hands. He runs them down across each of my collarbones and over my chest. As if he can't decide where to begin and where to stop, he keeps going. Down my arms, across my chest. Everywhere he can reach, his hands go. He touches me as if he's trying to memorize me. As if I might disappear. His hands explore me as if it's the first time he's touching me. Like he can't believe I'm here. An image his mind has created to play a trick on him.

Small bouts of breath pass between my lips as his hands smooth over my body. A tiny tremble of fear still vibrates beneath his touch.

I let Lennon's hands roam over my body, being careful not to rush him. Something tells me this isn't the first time he's experienced this nightmare. He's used to doing this alone. The storm rolling in his distant eyes begins to fade.

Reality settles in the air between us. Wide eyed, he stares at me.

"Laurel, I…" He blinks, glancing down at his hands.

I inch closer. "It's okay. Everything is okay."

"I, um." He blinks again.

"You don't have to say anything."

His face relaxes as he rolls back. With a heavy breath, he looks up at the ceiling. "I'm sorry," he croaks. His voice is small, and the difference from his usual tone doesn't sit well with me.

This nightmare has shown another side to Lennon I've never seen before. I see the toll it's taken on him, his embarrassment evident in the way he's pulled away from me.

Feeling his absence, I climb over him, straddling his waist and pressing my thighs against his strong frame.

"You have nothing to apologize for."

The moonlight and city lights below peek through the window, casting a bright glow on Lennon. I lean down, bringing my face closer to his. Reaching up, he ghosts his fingertips along the length of my jaw. Tracing invisible lines, he makes a trail all the way up to my forehead.

His breathing has slowed, our connection bringing us both back down to earth. Gravity pulls on us like a magnet, anchoring us to our bed, to each other.

His finger dances slowly across my forehead. "Your fever is gone."

"It is." I crack a smile. "You nursed me back to health, Mr. Harding."

I hadn't noticed my fever was gone until now. My nose is still a little clogged, but other than that I feel normal. My fever has passed, and my bones are no longer aching. Instead, I only ache for Lennon.

He must be feeling the same because he wraps his hand around the back of my neck, slamming our mouths together. It's the first time we've kissed since the night after our wedding. I moan, leaning into it and breathing it all in. His soft mouth is warm. Hungry for more, he coaxes my lips apart, slipping his tongue against mine. His hand stays at the back of my neck, massaging me.

"Mm," I moan, my body wanting more. I pull away. "I can tell you another sweet." I tease, sitting up and lifting my shirt over my head. Correction. His shirt.

"Yes, please," he whispers, running his hands up and down my bare thighs. "Tell me another one."

I smirk, loving this game of his. A warm sensation seeps into my bones.

"One day, this lawyer got sick in the middle of the summer." I roll my hips and lean forward, bringing my face close to his. He tucks my long, loose strands behind my ear, revealing the side of my face. My cheeks grow sore from my large grin. "Three days after her wedding, in fact."

"Sounds awful," he teases. "I mean, who gets sick in the summer anyway?" He scrunches his nose, and I bite back the giggle in my chest.

"I know, right? And it was awful." I nod, popping my bottom lip into a mock pout. "Their marriage was a little unconventional, having done it to save his family's business."

"Now that doesn't sound very sweet." He frowns back, continuing to slide his hands up and down my thighs.

"Well…" I roll my hips. Heat expands in my lower belly. "She went home without telling her husband, but when she woke up, in a fever I might add, he'd brought the entire pharmacy to her just to make sure she had everything she needed."

"You're right." He grins, his nightmare far behind him in the rear-view mirror. "That was a sweet story."

My pussy is pressing against his swollen cock. He grunts when I rock my hips again, rubbing myself along his length.

I lift my hips away from him and easily slide his cock into me. My walls clench as I gasp, pausing to savor the sensation of taking him completely. He tilts his head back, pressing it into his pillow, grunting. A warm buzz radiates across my body when he looks back at me, his eyes catching the moonlight. He grabs my hips, pulling me down until we're completely connected. His chin is nearly pressed to his chest, his eyes focused on the place where our bodies meet. He looks up at me with a salacious grin, hungry for me. I slowly lift myself, keeping my eyes pinned on his.

"I've missed this." I plant both hands on his chest, digging my nails into my skin as I move above him. I roll my hips as I lift myself again, making sure I move at a slow pace.

"Missed what?"

"You." I tilt my head up, closing my eyes as another moan escapes my lips. "This."

I don't care if my admission goes against the terms and conditions of our marriage. We were only supposed to act like a married couple in public. But the separation from Lennon these past three days has awoken a sleeping beast inside me. My feelings for Lennon can't be tamed. It's torture trying.

"I've missed this, too," he grits out, apparently not caring either. "I've missed your sweet pussy taking my cock. All of it. But I want your eyes open." He growls. "Looking at me."

I open my eyes and do as he says. He reaches down to where our bodies are connected. Pressing his thumb firmly against my clit, every nerve in my body expands.

"Oh, fuck," my voice trembles as I catch my breath.

"Play with your tits, Mrs. Harding."

I reach up and grab my breasts. The soft flesh molds between my fingers. I graze my thumbs over my peaked nipples.

"Fuck, yeah." Lennon growls. "You're even more beautiful like this, Mrs. Harding."

"How?" I ask, arching my spine and tilting my head back. I swallow down the heat rising

"You're even more beautiful with me inside you. Watching your body move against mine does something to me," he confesses. "I love when you're completely naked and raw for me. I love watching your body reacting to mine." He sucks in a breath between his teeth. Sitting up, he wraps his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me close. He keeps his hand between us, working my clit as I rock my hips.

He bites down on my lip, and I melt against him on a moan.

I drape my arms over his shoulders, pressing my chest against him. I lift myself higher as Lennon tightens his grip around my neck. He fists my hair between his fingers, tugging on it. He's gentle enough not to hurt me but strong enough to make me gasp with every tug.

Between his hand on my neck, his thumb against my clit, and him filling me, my heart expands and my legs tingle. But I'm not sure if those are the only reasons. Looking into Lennon's eyes, I think about how he was only minutes ago. Vulnerable and afraid. Guilt and sadness mixed with pain. I've never seen him this way. But I think the arrow shooting straight to my heart is the way he looked at me with need. I'm the life raft he'd been desperately searching for, begging to bring him home.

And I did.

But he isn't alone. I realize Lennon has been slowly stitching me back together, too. Every time I've been with him since finding out Roe's diagnosis, I've never felt more at home. The world seems less dark and isolating. Even if he doesn't know my life is collapsing outside of our small bubble.

"Laurel," he whispers, pressing his lips to mine.

I run my fingers through his dark hair, rocking my hips faster. I bury my face into his neck, fire building in my stomach.

"Come with me," he whispers. His cock twitches inside me.

I cry out, my voice muffled by Lennon's warm neck. My walls clench around him as his cock pulsates inside me. His hand runs down the length of my back, letting go of my hair, massaging me in rhythm with my orgasm. I keep my face buried in his neck. Unsure why, emotion gets stuck in my throat. Pressure builds behind my eyes, tears threatening to spill. I can't explain it, but I feel closer to Lennon.

It's a foolish notion to fall for your fake husband. On paper, he's real. He isn't supposed to be more than that. But here we are. Here he is with his arms around me, healing me without even knowing it.