“I do still have a bruise.”
“Something tells me you’ll have a lot more by tomorrow.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Play your cards right.” Shifting closer, I graze my index finger down his jawline, my grin widening. “Actually, I could go for round two right now.”
“Insatiable.”
Chewing on my lip, I reach for his hand and drag it to the soaked juncture between my legs, where his release leaks out and coats my inner thighs.
His eyes roll up, and he bites back a groan. “Greedy.”
“I bet I could outlast you.”
He smiles—a flash of teeth, so organic and real. I hardly ever see him smile like this unless the cameras are on him or people are watching.
I want to keep it close, carry it with me for all my days.
It’s just for me.
A rough chuckle skims my lips as he leans in for a kiss and flips me onto my back. “Dream on, Nicks.”
Chapter 44
Lex
It’s a different kind of Thanksgiving.
The farm is quiet, the sky a pristine blue, no clouds in sight. I stand outside on the front porch, the eroded red farmhouse towering behind me as the scent of briny turkey and savory sides sneaks through the cracked main window. I left California in such a rush, I forgot my cigarettes. But something tells me I might not need them anymore.
No cars zoom down the winding, rural suburbia road, giving me a reprieve from the nonstop LA noise. I used to crave the noise, the relentless chaos on the other side of my window; not long ago, itwasmy reprieve.
Something tells me I might not need that anymore either.
The door creaks open behind me, and I step off the stoop, turning to find Stevie standing at the threshold in a brown harvest dress that teases her knees. I glance down at those knees. A little canvas of scars zaps a pang of doubt to my chest.
For the briefest moment, uncertainty grips me. I’m not sure when I’ll ever get over the feeling of insecurity that has carved holes in my heart for years.
The notion that I’ll hurt her again. That my demons will come out to play when the nights are long and the joy is fleeting, and she’ll grow to hate me one day.
But then she smiles. Stevie sticks her head out through the big wooden door with a glowing grin.
And the burden lifts.
Another feeling takes over, the one that’s been poking through my dark hollows, sprinkling seeds in those empty holes. She’s the water. The sunlight.
New growth.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she says, biting her lip in a way that says she is happy.
Her radiance is contagious, lighting my own smile. “You look beautiful.”
And not just her face. Not just her ribbons of dark hair, glinting with autumn lights beneath the sun, or the sprinkling of freckles on her nose, or those green eyes that have captivated me since that day on a city street when I was seventeen years old, a shell of a person.
It’s her aura, her kindness, her unwavering conviction that I’ve always been more than what I’ve believed—more than a used-up actor, a hollow puppet on tattered strings.
She always looked deeper, saw the person inside. The man curled up, begging to be brought to life again.
“Come on,” she says, stepping fully out the door and reaching for my hand. “I want you to see someone.”
