Chapter 32 #2
Willow collapses over me, and I grasp the back of her head, smearing paint through her blond hair, weaving the strands with an array of color as my other hand slides down her spine. She seals her lips to mine, breathing life into my being with her whimper of pleasure as she rolls her hips.
Bracing her hands on either side of my head, she forces us closer, not a breath of space between our bodies as we writhe in color, relying on the other for oxygen, descending into the depths of ecstasy wrapped together.
It’s more than sex. It’s love we’re making. Art we’re creating.
Willow rises, arching her back as her palms drag down my chest, leaving streaks of indigo. I slide mine up her stomach, taking her breasts in each hand and grazing my thumb over each nipple, leaving her painted pink.
She rotates, lifting before dropping down, weaving her body over mine in a stunning display of colorful intimacy, ushering me deeper inside her.
“You feel so good, love,” I rasp. “So beautiful.”
I raise myself into a sitting position, spreading my thighs. Willow begins to fall back, but I catch her ass, holding her steady as her hands clasp behind my neck. I press her into me, flushing our chests together, my hips bracketing hers to set a new pace.
We morph into a mess of entwined limbs and fractured whispers, our rhythm chaotic and wild as our bodies slip and glide through the paint beneath us. When we come, we unravel together—a shared moment that expands beyond comprehension, into something all-consuming and uniquely ours.
Seconds, years, maybe even eons later, Willow and I lie side by side atop her canvas, staring at the ceiling, still searching for our breath.
“Didn’t realize that’s what you meant by art therapy, Wills,” I murmur. “Now that I understand it better, I’d like to book another session as soon as possible.”
She snorts. “You have a terrible habit of making bad jokes after sex.”
“I do that a lot?” I ask, turning my face to hers.
She matches the movement, looking at me with a bemused smile. “Almost every time.”
“Fuck.” I sigh. “That’s embarrassing. Maybe I should talk about it in therapy.”
“God, Wes.” She bursts with laughter, smiling so bright I almost wonder if the sky outside turned from night to day. “You need to shut up.”
I return the laughter, and when we’ve both calmed, I reach for her hand. “I have a session next week, by the way. Penelope helped me find someone, and I’m going to meet with him virtually until I return to Santa Monica next month.”
She squeezes my hand, whispering, “You make me proud, Wes.” Her tender blue eyes melting through me. “You think you’re ready to open up about it all?”
I nod. “I think so. Suppressing things exhausts me, and I guess I’ve realized that even if I wanted to forget it—black it out—it doesn’t actually go away.
Ignoring my past doesn’t erase it. I’ll never escape any of it, and pretending that I can only tires me out.
Wading through it is debilitating too, but I have to believe it’s better in the end.
” I laugh gruffly. “I’ll never forget the fact that my father is responsible for my mother’s death, and nobody cares except for me.
I’ll never erase the fact I almost killed him too. ”
“I care,” she whispers immediately. “I’m so sorry. I . . . I can’t imagine, Wes.”
“I know. It’s okay.” I sigh. “I’m sorry I just dumped that on you. This was terrible timing.”
“It’s never bad timing if you’re taking the moment to let go of something that gives you pain.
” She takes our joined hands off her stomach, lowering them to the canvas between us, and pressing my palm flat before laying hers atop it.
“Leave it all right here. In the painting.” She huffs a soft laugh. “That is art therapy.”
Her ability to make the heaviest burdens feel light enough to carry will never stop astonishing me.
Feeling free enough to speak my thoughts aloud, I continue, “I lived in a cell for almost two years. I received my high school diploma in the recreation room at the county jail, ate my meals with strangers, grieved my mother alone and behind a steel door. That was the existence I knew, and I never talk about it. I feel this overwhelming need to be grateful I’m no longer there.
That I got out. I feel obligated to forget, but it’s a part of my history that’s impossible to. ”
“You don’t have to. You can talk about it with me. Always.”
“I don’t need to remind you that you chose a criminal, Willow.”
“Weston.” She rolls onto an elbow, hovering over me.
“You’re not a criminal, and I hold no judgment for your past. You’ve weathered more storms than I could ever comprehend, and when I look at the way you’ve held yourself through them, I’m in awe at the person you’ve become.
I’d choose you every fucking time. Do you understand? ”
Would she still feel that way if she knew I’d wanted him dead? That sometimes I still do?
The thought echoes through my mind—something I push so far down inside myself, even I forget it’s there most of the time, but moments like this allow it to resurface. Perhaps that’s another reason why I’m so afraid of therapy.
“You may not hold judgment for it, Willow, but it’s still a fact.
I was arrested and I was charged, and I had a trial that allowed people to form their own opinions, regardless of the ultimate outcome.
There are public records and articles written about me, and that noise will only get louder once I’m competing professionally again.
If I make it . . . If I reach the Olympics, or even the Championship Tour, it’s something that will come out, and if you’re with me, you’ll be judged for it too. ”
She shakes her head, hair swaying over her face as she stares down at me, eyes misting with conviction. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what anyone else thinks, and I still do not believe you’re a criminal, no matter the opinions of others. So please don’t say that about yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe.
Her lips tilt with a soft smile before she presses a light kiss to my nose. “I’m honored to be with you, Wes. I’ll shout about it from every rooftop on the planet.”
“I feel the same, Wills.” I surge forward, planting my lips on hers. “But . . . your dad did ask me to avoid being public about our relationship until this shit with Parker is completely blown over, and I think that’s probably a good idea.”
Willow frowns, brows furrowed as she lays on her back, staring at the ceiling again. “Fuck that. I’m so over him taking up any ounce of space in my life, Wes. I love my dad, but he can’t control that. That’s between you and me.”
I can’t pretend that part of me doesn’t still worry about Parker’s retaliation, or how my reputation could impact Willow’s, but I know that Leo has started the process of getting a restraining order against him after he contacted Willow last week.
If all goes well, we’ll never hear from him again, and if Willow wants to brave the storm that is my past alongside me, who the fuck am I to argue?
“I’m on your team, Wills. If you want to scream from the rooftops, I’ll stand right beside you and scream too.”
She nods, and I flip my palm so that it presses against hers, lacing our fingers together. She told me to leave my pain in the canvas, allow my words to soak into the paint smeared from our love, but I want to hold her instead.
“Are you ever afraid that he’s going to find you? Your dad. Once you become a gold medal holding World Champion.” She turns to face me, and I catch the smile she tosses my way. “Because you will.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t think he’ll ever come looking for me.
” I squeeze her hand. “It’s the fear of running into him by accident that I feel like I can’t escape.
The knowledge that he’s still out there, living like nothing happened.
That he could be around any corner, and if I saw him .
. . I’ll never stop wondering if I could snap again. ”
Willow is quiet for a moment, but she tightens her fingers around mine.
Four times. Finally, she speaks in the softest tone, “You may not move on from it, but I can hold you through it. I don’t know if you’d snap, but if you did, I’d hold you back.
I’d never judge you for craving justice for her, because I want it too.
The difference between your past and your future, even with the pain that’ll always linger .
. .” She looks at me, ocean eyes exploding with something that looks a whole hell of a lot like love. “Now, you won’t be alone.”
Her gentle tenderness and unbreakable care rushes through me, a shudder biting my spine at the intensity. I feel Willow over every inch of my skin—from her lingering taste in my mouth, her body in my hands, the weight of her stare as I lose myself inside her gaze.
I’m stripped bare—emotionally raw yet unnervingly confident that her words ring true.
I’ll never be alone again.