Page 45 of Sunday's Best

“You feel incredible,” he says under his breath. The hot slide of him inside me becomes erratic, his entire body stiffening. “I’m coming. Fuck. I’m⁠—”

Pupils blown out, Holden works the vibrator over my clit, and his mouth falls open with a primal groan, the split in his lip pulled taut—probably splitting further.

Then I’m in a rip current of pleasure, wave after torturous wave. My orgasm barrels into me, until every sense is lost, and it’s only Holden, Holden, Holden. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My legs must have spasmed so hard the fell from his shoulders, because suddenly his body is draped over mine, and his face is buried in the crook of my neck as he comes inside me. His muttered praise—telling me how well I did, how beautiful I am, how perfect—is barely audible with my pulse hammering in my ears.

Holden slumps in satisfaction, and the feel of his body pinning mine to the mattress is like a weighted blanket. I inhale as deeply as I can and tenderly run my hands down his sweat-slicked back.

Pressing up onto his elbows, Holden’s gaze meets mine and we stare at each other for timeless moments. My hand slides along the rumpled bedspread until I find his work-hardened skin, and our fingers knot together.

“Still hot even though we aren’t sneaking around anymore?” he asks. “I know you like me better when you hate me.”

I laugh softly, cupping his face with my free hand. I brush my thumb over his cut lip. “That’s true.”

“I’ll set up between your thighs for the entire night. I’m sure eventually you’ll get so tired of me playing with your pussy, you’ll tell me to fuck off.”

I raise a brow. “All night?”

“Fuck, I’d live there, if you let me.”

I kiss him, smiling against his soft, warm lips. And I feel him smile back.

And not that I’d admit it, but I like him a lot better when I’m falling in love with him.

Sixteen

Afew days later, I’m barefoot in Holden’s kitchen with an icy wine cooler, chopping onions for the sheet pan of nachos we’ll be eating once Holden’s out of the shower. Dusk gives the room a soft orange glow, and my hips sway slowly to some new country duet that’s been all over the radio lately. The candle set in the middle of the island dances along with me, warming the space that already feels more like home than anywhere else ever has.

A knock at the door catches me off guard.

Setting the knife down, I take a hearty swig of my drink before padding across the room.

The door swings open, and I know who to expect even before I see him. Something about his presence enervates my soul, sapping its energy.

“He’s not here,” I lie. “If you came to start some⁠—”

“I didn’t,” Logan cuts me off. He fiddles with the baseball cap clenched in his fingers. His nose is various shades of purple and yellow, and still swollen—broken, I assume. “I talked to Holden this morning.”

That knocks the wind out of me for a second.

He continues, “I was hoping you and I could talk. No fighting. Just… I think we owe it to each other to end things with an adult conversation.”

I cross my arms. “I told you when I broke up with you that there’s no discussion to be had.”

“Is that because you knew if we talked, you’d end up fessing up to the fact that you’re fucking my brother?”

He’s right, and that pisses me off. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to slam the door in his face.

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment before exhaling and heading back to the kitchen. I snark over my shoulder, “Sucks getting a taste of your own medicine, doesn’t it?”

“I get it. You wanted revenge, and my brother was right there.” Logan grabs a beer from Holden’s fridge and plops down on one of the stools across the kitchen island from me. “I’m ready to forgive you, if this means we’ll finally move past what happened last year. We don’t have to let this come between us.”

Mid-drink, I nearly spray wine cooler across the kitchen when a sudden burst of laughter racks my entire body. “Are you kidding me? We’re over, Logan. We’d be over even if Holden had never come into the picture.”

His eyes flicker with hurt, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Sunday, I love you.”

“No, you don’t. You love the idea of a girlfriend, and I happened to be available when you were in need of one.” The glass bottle in my hand clunks against the quartz countertop, and I comb my fingers through my long hair, debating whether this discussion is worth it. The alternative is screaming for Holden and asking him to force his brother out. “If you loved me, you would’ve listened to me. You would’ve seen me. You damn sure wouldn’t have fucked every pretty girl at every rodeo in Western Canada.”