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21
Mended Hearts
LEIGHTON
Everything about Ollie’s suite felt decadent. From the thick drapes to the secluded rooms and plush bedding, no expense had been spared. It was beautiful—but it had nothing on the view. About thirty minutes later, I pushed the curtains back, revealing a straight shot to Tampa Bay, glittering under the moonlight. I was standing in nothing but Ollie’s shirt, which I’d swiped from his meticulously organized drawers while he tucked the kids in.
There was something deeply soothing about watching the water while waiting for him. And I wondered if it was possible to drown in the smell of him, because just the scent clinging to this shirt had me salivating and desperate.
“Stunning,” I muttered, only for the door to creak behind me. I turned to find Ollie leaning against it, clicking the lock into place as his eyes scraped over my bare legs. When his bottom lip rolled between his teeth, I swore my vagina purred in anticipation. That was one of the things I loved about this man—his intent was always written all over his face.
“Yes, you are,” he said simply, and my soul sang at the sincerity in his voice. He shrugged out of his hoodie, dropping it at the end of the bed as he prowled toward me—nothing but lean lines, defined muscles, and modest hints of ink. When he stopped just short of touching me, I pressed my palms to his chest as his hands melted onto my face.
“Missed you, Trouble. Desperately.”
“Same.”
“Let’s agree to never do that again.”
“I like that plan.”
He dipped down to steal a kiss, hands sliding down my neck, over the curve of my breasts, my waist, my hips—until they slipped beneath the hem of the shirt. Goosebumps erupted as his fingers found my bare ass and Ollie exhaled like it pained him.
“Your skin is so soft.”
“And your hands feel incredible.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s very good for me.”
“Indeed.”
My gaze snagged on the tiny red nick beneath his jaw, just below the bob of his Adam’s apple. I ghosted a finger over the mark, smiling as he offered, “Shaving.”
“You mean you weren’t held at knifepoint?”
Something flickered behind his eyes before he smirked, brushing a loose wave off my forehead.
“Not recently, no.”
“Recently?” I squeaked, eyes going wide.
A low rumble of laughter shook his chest. “Relax, baby. Nobody’s ransomed me in ages.”
“That’s not funny,” I bit out, only to lose my breath when he spun me in his arms, aligning my back to his chest and guiding us both to face the window.
“Would you get ‘em for me, killer?” he murmured at my ear, his fingers sliding over my chest and neck.
“Maybe?” It came out as more of a puff than a word, and I melted when he slipped one hand beneath the neckline of his shirt. His warmth skimmed over my clavicle, down to cup one breast. I gasped, my head tipping back onto his shoulder as he began to sway gently with the music he must’ve queued up earlier.
And as I let my weight rest against him, something clicked. Official title or not, I wanted all my dances to belong to Oliver Hart.
A whimper escaped when he pulled his hand away, but it didn’t last. He scraped both palms over my ass, then lifted the shirt up and over my head, leaving me completely bare in the dark.
“I prefer you this way,” he said, husky and low, as he tossed the shirt aside. “You should never wear panties again.”