Page 135 of Broken Trails
It sends a flush straight down my spine—heat pulsing through every nerve, pooling low, short-circuiting any rational thought I was still clinging to.
“Oh, you two aresickening.” Olivia groans from the other end of the table, flicking a fry in our direction with a dramatic roll of her eyes.
Isla tips her head back as she chuckles. “Please. It’s only going to get worse.”
“And stay that way,” Harrison adds, grinning as he smacks a loud kiss to Imogen’s cheek.
She immediately tries to swat him off, rolling her eyes, but a smile tugs at her mouth anyway, one she doesn’t bother fighting.
And somehow, even through the slow-motion wreckage spiralling inside me, I feel it—that same heat rising beneath my skin. Because Michael does this to me. Makes my body respond before my brain can intervene. Still makes me want things I don’t know how to ask for. Still feels… safe. Real.My lips twitch, but I don’t say anything.
I lean back into his side, letting myself fold into the curve of his arm. Sipping my water, I let the noise rise around us. And just pretend.
That my chest doesn’t feel like it’s cracked open. That the email didn’t land in my inbox like a ticking bomb, threatening to unravel everything I’ve rebuilt. That Liam’s words aren’t echoing in my head—court, charges, jail, leave him.
I pretend I’m not drowning in dread, anchored only by the warmth of Michael’s hand resting absentmindedly on my thigh beneath the table.
Because right now, this table isglowing. The kids are laughing so hard they’re crying, Harrison is trying to steal a spoonful of Joseph’s sundae while Callie sings ‘Let It Go’ with zero pitch control. Xavier is arguing with Olivia about whether or not he cheated at trivia last week, and Amelia’s giggling into her milkshake as Gracie tries to climb into her lap. The clatter of cutlery, the rattle of plates, the sharp pop of fizzy drinks opening—all of it swells and blurs into something full.This table is love.Loud, messy, completely unfiltered love. And I’m lying to every single person sitting at it.
Especially him.
Because if Michael looked too closely, he’d see it. He’d see how tightly I’m holding it together. How none of this is okay. How I’m not okay. So I plaster on a smile. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I lean into the man who makes my world a little quieter, a little steadier, even as it begins to fall apart. Again. Because he doesn’t know what I know. And when I leave, he can’t know why.
We don’t talk when we get back to his place.
We don’t need to.
The silence between us says everything. It’s thick with the weight of what I know, of what I have to do, of everything I’m not ready to say. The second the door shuts, I reach for him. My hands twist into the hem of his hoodie, my mouth finds his, and I kiss him like it might be the last time. There’s no hesitation. No teasing.
No pause to breathe. I give him all of me in that kiss. Clothes hit the floor in a trail to his bedroom. He pushes me down onto the bed, his mouth already on me—kissing, biting, sucking.
No pause. No mercy. His hand slides behind me, unfastening my bra in one smooth motion, and I can’t stop the moan that comes out. Because yeah, that was fucking hot.
His mouth crashes into mine then, all tongue and hunger. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he growls, kissing down my neck. “All fucking day.” Another kiss to my jaw. “While I was on that track, all I could think about wasyou.”
I arch beneath him, moaning as he takes my nipple into his mouth—his piercing cool against my heated skin—and he sucks hard before releasing it with a loud, filthy pop.His kisses move lower, down my stomach, until he settles between my thighs. His tongue strokes long and slow through my folds, dragging a moan straight from my chest.
At the last, languid stroke, Michael sits back up, bends my knees to my chest, and locks eyes with me as he fists his cock. He pumps once. Twice. Squeezes the tip, then drags it through my labia.
When he pushes in, it’s torturously slow—inch by inch—stretching me, filling me, until I’m trembling beneath him.
“Fuck,” I gasp, nails digging into his arms. “You’re killing me.”
“You feel so good, baby,” he groans. “So tight. So fucking greedy for me.” He eases into me, back and forth, slow at first, testing the edge between control and surrender. His palms press into the mattress beside my head, caging me in, but then he leans down, resting on his elbows, bringing us chest to chest. The air shifts. His tempo changes. Just slightly. Subtly.
His hips roll, pressing himself ever deeper into me. This time, there’s a different kind of hunger behind his movements—less fire, more feeling. His hands slide up my sides with reverence, thumbs grazing the underswell of my breasts like I might break beneath him. He kisses my neck, my collarbone, the space behind my ear.
“God, you feel like a fucking dream,” he whispers. His movements soften, filled with care. With worship. He’s not just fucking me anymore. He’s making love to me. And I can’t handle it.
Not tonight. Not when every slow grind of his hips feels like a promise I can’t keep. Not when I’m already suffocating beneath the weight of what I know. I press my palms to his chest and push gently. His gaze lifts, concerned, but I shake my head.
“My turn,” I murmur, adding a smirk. “Let me ride you.”
His brows jump. His eyes widen—just for a moment—before darkening into narrow slits of heat.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, that usual teasing note curling in his voice. I twist my hips, flipping us over, and straddle him. Mythighs cage his waist, and his hands instinctively reach for me, but I catch them, pinning them to the mattress with a firm grip.
“No touching, Hotshot.”
