“Hell, no.”
She pressed her hands to his chest. “Then I guess we’re stuck with each other.”
“Which is lucky, since you love me.”
Harlow’s lungs stopped. A roar started in her head. “What did you say? Why would you think that?” Man, was that high and squeaky voice hers?
“You told me the other night. When you were drunk.”
Oh, God. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. “Oh. Well, drunk people say…things.”
“You telling me that it isn’t true?” Emotions swirled in his deep blue eyes like smoke.
She looked to the side. Hell. He wanted to crack her open, strip her bare.
Easton gripped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.
“I hope it’s true,” he said quietly, “because I’m in love with you.”
Harlow’s world stopped. Her mouth dropped open and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She tried to talk, but no words came out.
“Oh, God,” she gasped finally.
He pulled her flush to his chest. “I love you, Harlow Carlson.”
“How is this even possible?” she whispered.
“Because we’re perfect for each other. Because in such a short time, you’ve become my everything.”
She felt a prick of tears, emotion alive in her chest.
“And seeing Hugo shoot at you, seeing you fall and not knowing—” His voice cracked.
She cupped his cheeks. “I’m okay. We’re both okay.”
“I’ve seen a lot of people get shot who weren’t okay.”
Oh, Easton. He carried such weight.
One of his hands slid into her hair. “You have to be okay.”
“I’m right here, Easton.” She took his hand and placed it flat against her chest. “Feel my heart beating.”
Fire ignited in his eyes. His hand curled around her breast. He pulled her up on her toes and kissed her. The kiss was hard, raw. There was no finesse, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. She moaned.
One of his strong arms snaked around her, then she found herself whirled and lifted.
Harlow gasped. He carried her to the dining room table and set her down on the edge. Then his mouth was on hers—hard, demanding. So good, but with an edge. A desperate, greedy edge.
He reached down and undid her pants. He dragged them down her legs, taking her panties with them. Next, he pulled away her ruined shirt. Jaw tight, he balled it up and threw it away. Her bra followed.
She sat there naked, his gaze burning into her.
“Easton.”
Intensity pumped off him. He pushed her flat on her back. His gaze locked on the white bandage on her arm. Then he bent over her and kissed it.
Oh, boy. She quivered.
His mouth traveled lower, then he tugged her nipple into his mouth.
She arched into him, her hands sliding into his hair.
“I shouldn’t touch you. You’re hurt.”
“It’s just a nick,” she panted.
“I should take care of you—”
She tugged his hair until that intense blue gaze met hers. “You are. I’m not made of glass. You need this. I need this. Take what you need, Easton.”
With a groan, his mouth took hers again. Harlow kissed him with everything she had, taking, giving, wanting more.
She felt his hand between them at his belt. Then his knuckles slid between her thighs. He stroked her, sliding through her wet folds, then his hand was gone and she felt the head of his cock.
Yes. With a jerk of his hips, he thrust deep, filling her.
“Easton!” She wrapped her arms and legs around him.
He drove into her, finding a hard, unforgiving rhythm. “Take me, Harlow.”
“Yes. You feel perfect inside me.”
“Made for me. So tight. Fuck.”
He slammed into her and she held him tighter. She heard the table scrape on the floor.
“Easton, I—” There was no time to finish. Pleasure hit her in a hot rush. With a sharp cry, she reared up and bit his neck.
He growled, his hips bucking faster, then he lodged his cock deep and groaned through his own release.
They stayed there on the table, both panting. It took a while, but finally their breathing slowed.
Harlow ran a hand down his back.
“Is your arm okay?” he asked.
“What arm?”
When he pulled her up to sit, she smiled.
That earned her the faintest tip of his lips. “You’re okay.”
“I told you that.” She licked her lips. “You’re really in love with me?”
He would never realize that it was the hardest question she’d ever asked.
“Yes, Harlow Carlson. I, Easton Norcross, am in love with you.”
Her chest filled with warmth, then she blinked. “Oh no, when people ask about when we both shared our “I love yous” it can’t be when we were naked on the dining room table.”
He smiled and she was glad to see it. The darkness was sliding away.
“Well, you’re naked,” he said.
True. He was still mostly dressed.
“And really, the first time you told me that you love me was when you were drunk.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Shut up.”
His phone vibrated and he pulled it out. “There’s someone at the front door.”
“Who?”
“Ace.” He tilted the phone to show an image of Ace at the front door on the security camera.
She frowned. “Why?”
“Get dressed, baby.” Easton helped her off the table. “I’m heading out with Vander. Ace is going to stay with you.”
She straightened. “Heading out? Why?”
Darkness licked his eyes again. He shrugged off his shirt and wrapped it around her. “Durant shot you. He hunted you. I won’t let that stand.”
“Easton—” Fear was like snakes in her belly.
“Go up and shower, get ready for bed. I’ll let Ace in, and then get ready to go.”
She grabbed his arm. “Promise me you won’t get hurt.” She reached up and stroked the cuts at his temple. “That you’ll come back to me.”
“I’ll be here when you wake up, baby.”
He kissed her, and it was soft with something she’d never felt before. God, was this what love felt like?
“Now, go and change,” he said. “I have no desire for Ace to see you naked in only my shirt.”
“You come back safely, Easton.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “I promise.”
When Easton let himself into the house, the sun was just starting to rise over the city.
He’d spent the night out with Vander. There’d been no sign of Hugo Durant, or Charles Carlson.
They’d pressed Armand pretty hard, but the man had claimed he’d cut Durant loose.
“I would never hurt Harlow, Norcross.” Antoine shook his head. “Hugo crossed the line.”
Easton had hated the guy even saying her name. Only the knowledge that she was safe, and tucked up in his own bed, had stopped him punching Armand.
But he had used his interrogation skills. They’d followed Durant’s trail, and Easton had questioned some of his “friends.” As he headed up the stairs, and he curled his hand into a fist, his newly torn knuckles stung.