Among the Heather (The Highlands, #2) (63)

My fingers clawed at his ass, trying to hold him closer, and North gave in, guiding himself to me.

Nudging before pushing in.

He grunted as my heat surrounded his tip, and he broke our kiss to look me in the eye as he thrust all the way in.

I fisted his T-shirt, my inner thighs drawing up tight against his hips as he pulled out and thrust back in. Hard. Desperate.

My lips parted on a cry, my head falling back as the sensation tightened deep within.

“Look at me,” North demanded as he anchored my hips in his hands. “Look at me, Aria.”

So I did. And seeing the emotion in his eyes, I wanted to close myself against it. But I couldn’t. No one made me believe I was as wanted and needed as him, and selfishly, I had to enjoy that one last time. To remember the way he made me feel.

“North …” His name was a plea.

His jaw clenched, his grip on me tightened, and he began to thrust. Hard, deep drives punctuated by my growing cries. I had no awareness of where we were or if anyone could hear us. All that mattered was him.

“I’m close, I’m close,” I panted.

His lips crushed over mine as he gentled his drives, teasing me, making tears prick my eyes. Especially as he pressed kisses along my jaw, down my throat. “This will never be over for me, princess,” he whispered hoarsely in my ear. “Never. You’re in my blood,” he growled, his hips quickening as he felt my inner muscles tightening with my coming release. “You always will be.”

My climax hit, my heart pounding as pleasure exploded through me. I throbbed around North in powerful waves, and he cried out against my throat as it brought him to release. He pulsed inside me, shuddering with the force of it.

Quickly, however, reality set in.

A chill skated over my body, and grief clawed at my throat.

North released a long exhale that shivered across my skin. He squeezed my hips before raising his head to look at me.

When I lowered my eyes, unable to bear the feelings he wouldn’t hide from me, North muttered a curse and pulled out.

“I didn’t wear a condom,” he said as he pulled my skirt down to cover me before fixing himself.

My heart raced, but not at the news we’d forgone protection. “I’m on the pill, remember? And I’m sexually healthy.”

“So am I.” He exhaled shakily. “Aria, please look at me.”

I owed him that. To not be a coward. Pushing off the desk, I smoothed my dress, ignoring my underwear lying on the office floor or the feel of his cum between my thighs.

North shook his head, fists clenched at his sides. “Walking away from this is a big fucking mistake.”

“I would end up hurting you, or you me,” I whispered, too emotional to speak louder. “I’d rather it end now like this.”

“I don’t want it to end,” he stated simply.

Heartbreakingly.

A huge part of me wanted to fly into his arms and beg him to forgive me so we could just go on as we were.

Yet I knew how drastically things were about to change once he started filming again. I knew all my bitter insecurities would destroy us. Or … my faith in him would be misplaced and he’d hurt me. As long as he was acting, my old wounds wouldn’t allow me to believe he wouldn’t eventually try to use me. Or cheat on me with a future beautiful leading lady.

Rational or not, I didn’t trust him.

And my distrust would come between us.

Staying strong, I lifted my chin and looked him square in the eye. “It’s over, North.”

His expression was winded, like I’d just punched him in the gut.

Self-flagellation gripped me tight as his eyes brightened, seconds before he gave me an angry nod and slammed out of my office.

The sound of the door banging against the jamb seemed to echo and echo inside the space that I’d used as a cage to protect me.

Locked up tight.

Where no one could hurt me.

Except myself.

I covered my mouth with my hand to silence the sobs that wracked my body.





Twenty-Five


NORTH





Usually when I’m on stage or when the camera is on me, I can slip into character like a superhero outfit. Suddenly, I’m no longer North but the very soul of someone else entirely.

To start, we were shooting the film in sequence, and in London where my character, Daniel Stone, has his carefully cultivated life as an intelligence officer blown up. Daniel is not spy thriller suave. He’s a frosty motherfucker, assassin-level emotionally shut down, and part of his character journey over the franchise will be him reluctantly beginning to be part of the world again. To feel again.

All I felt, however, as I delivered my lines was panic.

I had not slipped into Daniel like a well-fitting outfit this morning. To be honest, Daniel chafed. Daniel was the equivalent of wearing a mohair suit infested with fire ants. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but today’s scenes weren’t going well.

Why the fuck did Daniel chafe?

I tried to push through it, to rely on my skills to get through the scenes, but I knew by Blake’s expression as he approached me after calling cut that things were not going well.

“A word.” He nodded his head toward the far corner of the soundstage, and I followed him. Cast and crew moved around us doing their jobs, hopefully not paying attention to the fact that I was about to be chastised by a director who’d fought hard for me to play this role.