Over the past four months, they’d gone separately about their daily lives—worked, ate, relaxed, slept—and then hooked up for sex a few times a week. They were not part of each other’s lives: she wasn’t “his,” even though they were exclusive.
Still, she was acquainted with many of his pride mates since she shopped at the pride-owned stores she was currently walking past—all of which were close to her complex. As such, she knew he’d made no secret of their fling. He’d made it publicly clear that she was off-limits. But he’d never formally introduced her to his family or ever taken her out on dates.
Although they only met up at either her apartment or his house, it wasn’t a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of thing. They also hung out, ate dinner, enjoyed some light conversation, and sometimes even watched a movie. He never made her feel used or disrespected. He was always totally focused on her and very much present in the moment.
And the sex? It was off-the-charts hot. Like all natural-born alphas, Havana could be pretty demanding in the bedroom and didn’t give up control easily. It wasn’t about sexual games. Testing her bedpartner was a primal drive inside every alpha female. It was instinctual to put up a fight, test the male’s strength, and make him work for control.
Tate was a very dominant man. He expressed that dominance and need for control during sex, so he hadn’t been bothered by her refusal to submit easily—in fact, he’d seemed to like the challenge. So, yeah, they were a good match in bed.
She’d enjoyed the fling for what it was. For a while. Recently, she found herself lamenting that he had no interest in getting to know her. It had started to hurt that he didn’t ask her personal questions or for her to elaborate on any information she volunteered. It had also started to bother her that he only ever contacted her when he was interested in hooking up—other than that, it was radio silence.
She wasn’t actually upset with him, just with the situation. Because, really, she only had herself to blame for again falling for a guy who couldn’t give her what she wanted.
She knew from his pride mates that some of his ex-bed buddies had agreed to his terms in the hope that he’d eventually commit. But Havana hadn’t walked into their arrangement thinking that it would be a steppingstone to a real relationship. She’d honestly thought she could enjoy a brief fling and not cross any emotional lines.
Well she’d failed. Spectacularly.
And her pathetic hopes that the fling might blossom had died a quick death right in the middle of her stairwell earlier when Tate and his brother had been fitting a new door lock on another level, and they’d had no idea she overheard them …
“You and Havana look good together, Tate. You two have had a thing going for just over four months now, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a long time for you. Is it heading into semi-serious territory?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should consider making it a little serious and seeing if it goes anywhere. You’re thirty-two years old; you ain’t getting any younger.”
“Not interested in a real relationship, Luke. You know that. So does Havana. We’re just having a bit of fun, and that’s all we’re gonna have.”
She swallowed hard at the memory. Really, she should have guessed it was coming. A Dead End road sign had fallen over practically in front of her this morning.
Her first thought was, “Well, fuck.”
Her second thought was, “Is that what Tate and I have, a dead-end relationship?” And she’d concluded that, as much as she wished differently, they in fact did. The universe had kindly given her a reminder that this was going nowhere.
Yeah, she believed in signs. She heeded them. They’d never led her wrong.
Her inner animal wasn’t so happy that Havana intended to make a graceful exit from the fling. The devil was fussy and relatively antisocial, but she liked Tate; liked that he was so self-possessed and unapologetically masculine. She was in something of a funk right now.
Havana felt like indulging in a good sulk, too, but she had no right. She’d known from the very beginning that she and Tate weren’t building anything.
She’d also known, courtesy of his pride mates, that a woman he once tried imprinting on had completely fucked him over. That had been three years ago. He’d kept his relationships short and casual ever since—his usual cut-off date was two months. But he’d let his fling with Havana continue for longer, and she’d stupidly read a little too much into that. She shouldn’t have, considering he’d been very clear that there’d be no happy ending. There was no sense in whining about it now—not even in her head.
As she skirted the corner of the street and turned into the cul-de-sac, her stomach rolled. Which she totally ignored, because this had to be done. Approaching his house, she noticed two of his enforcers lingering near the building on guard. She said a quick hello to each of them as she walked up Tate’s front yard and onto his porch.