Page 23 of Wicked Games

Skimming, I read the most recent blog post, which is mostly her describing the house she’s going to live in for the summer. She writes about the flowers on her porch, the quiet that’s not quite lonely, but almost. The cove and looking at her reflection in the water but seeing through it, like she sees through herself when she looks in a mirror. There’s nothing there, nothing to see. I know how she feels. The hollowness. She ends the post saying she hopes she can find something in Lakehaven Falls, but she’s not sure yet what she’s looking for.

I scoff. It wasn’t a prick like me who’d tell her she wasn’t good for anything.

The comments are all positive, people hoping she gets back on her feet, stories of their own losses and how it gets better with time.

I can buy her book, and I click on that page, just to see it. A woman is on the cover, looking away from the camera, and the title reads Unfocused: A Collection of Thoughts. I study the picture and realize it’s a photo of Avery. Her hair looks coppery, her skin pale. The picture’s blurry, but it’s supposed to be that way, to complement the title. She has her arms wrapped around herself like she did the first day I met her, and the vibe is the same, like she’s trying to hold herself together and isn’t doing a good job of it. She’s beautiful, fragile, and life almost broke her.

I click out of her website and the other search results are things like the link to the magazine she writes for, interviews, and other places to buy her book.

I really fucked up insulting her writing. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t make much money, she’s obviously intelligent and touches a lot of people’s lives. You can’t put a price on that, and her ex-husband knew it. Why did they get a divorce? I want to know.

I set my laptop aside and glance out the door. Winnie’s gone, but Avery’s in her kitchen, standing at the island. She’s staring into space as if she’s trying to decide what to cook for dinner, or maybe something heavier than that. Trying to decide where she is in this life and where she should go from here.

I get up, step out onto the patio, and walk across the grass.

She watches me the entire time.

I slowly walk up her patio steps and stand in front of the glass door. She’ll have it locked now, to keep me out, and I don’t have to try to open it to know that. I rap my knuckles against the glass. “Avery, I want to apologize.”

“You already did. Go away.”

“No. Let me in.”

She bites her lip, and my cock stiffens. This is what I came over here for. Not to apologize, because she’s right, I already did, but I want her to accept it. I want her to moan as I sink into her and make her forget I even said such a stupid, hurtful thing in the first place.

She walks across the kitchen and unlocks the door. Sliding it open, she says, “What do you want?”

I step inside and close and lock the door, my gaze never leaving hers. I advance, and she backs up until I have her trapped against the fridge. Her eyes are wide, dark smudges under them, her lips glistening with saliva. My cock throbs. “Tell me no.”

She sucks in a breath. “Seth⁠—”

“You’re too slow, Avery,” I whisper, and cover her mouth with mine.

She tastes like sunshine and promises, tears and sorrow. Her lips tremble but she doesn’t push me away, and I hold her tightly against my chest, one hand to her back, the other to her ass. Her hands rest on my shoulders, and in an act of surrender, she wraps her arms around my neck.

I tease her lips with my tongue and she lets me in. Greedily, I take, tilting my head. I ravage her mouth, feeling alive for the first time since Theo was kidnapped, but I hate it too, that I can feel like this while my little boy is dead. That doesn’t stop me though, and I brush my lips over her jaw and down her neck. She pants, and I know in that instant she’s wet.

“I want to make love to you, Avery.”

“Seth, I don’t know . . .”

“I do. I need this. I need you.”

She searches my eyes, hers not as bloodshot as when we first met, but she’d been crying recently. “Tell me again you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I had no right to say what I did. I have no idea what happened between you and your ex-husband, but I hope I haven’t ruined things between us and that one day you’ll feel comfortable telling me.”

She pauses as she considers. “All right. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Wait.” I kiss her again, and it feels different now that she’s forgiven me. I twist my fingers in her hair and enjoy her body close to mine, the scent of her skin, and the way she leans into the kiss, sliding the hem of my t-shirt up to feather her fingers over my back. I shudder a breath against her lips and she smiles.

Holding my hand, she leads me upstairs to the bedroom I found her in yesterday. The air doesn’t smell musty anymore, and the bed’s made. I can’t stop thinking about her lying there, so still, and I swallow back a lump in my throat. I’m a lucky son of a bitch she’s letting me be here.

I kiss her again, nudging her backward until we’re both lying on top of the bedspread. She feels so slight under me, like I could suffocate her, but I can’t ease up and give her my full weight, my cock nice and snug between her legs. She doesn’t mind, only threads her fingers through my hair.

This is what I like, the soft kisses, feeling her body adjust and mold to mine like we were meant to be together.

She turns her head and drags in a deep breath. “What are you doing?”