Chapter 28 #2
Reid stands, drops a kiss on top of her head. Then he catches my eye on his way to the door.
The look lasts maybe half a second. But I know that look. Seen it a hundred times. You're up. I've got your six.
"I'll be a few hours. Have fun."
He grabs his keys and walks out.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening.
Laine's staring at me. Mouth still slightly open. Looking as stunned as I feel.
Reid was supposed to be the buffer. The safety net. The thing keeping me from losing my goddamn mind.
And he just handed me the keys and walked away.
I shove to my feet so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. Laine flinches.
Great. Now you're scaring her.
"I should—" I gesture vaguely toward the back door. "Workshop. Got some stuff to finish up."
"Blake."
Her voice stops me cold. I'm halfway to the door, hand already reaching for the handle.
"Reid said you're waiting for me." She's still sitting at the table, turned in her chair to face me. "That you haven't pushed for... for sex because it has to come from me." A pause. "Is that true?"
I turn around slowly.
She looks so small in that chair. Reid's shirt swallowing her up. Hair still messy from sleep. From him. Eyes searching my face.
"Yeah." My voice comes out rough. "It's true."
"Why?"
Because I fucked everything up so bad I can't risk doing anything else wrong. Because I spent months making you feel worthless and small and I don't get to demand anything from you now. Because if I push too fast and you pull away, I won't survive it.
"I hurt you." The words scrape out of my throat. "A lot. For a long time. I don't get to—" I shake my head. "It has to be your choice. When you're ready. If you're ever ready."
"And if I'm not? Ever?"
"Then I learn to live with that."
She's quiet for a long moment. Processing. I can practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes.
"I love you," I say. It comes out before I can stop it.
Quiet and raw and not at all how I'd planned to say it again—not here, not standing in the kitchen doorway trying to escape my own want.
But it's true. It's the truest thing I've got.
"That's not conditional on anything. You never have to—it doesn't come with strings. "
Her eyes go glassy. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out.
I try to smile. Pretty sure it comes out more like a grimace. "I'm not gonna die, Laine. I'll be fine."
It's supposed to be a joke. Neither of us laughs.
I turn for the door again. Need to get out of here before I do something I can't take back.
"Blake."
I stop. Don't turn around.
"You're not wearing a shirt."
I look down. She's right. Just sweats. No shirt. No shoes.
"It's cold outside," she adds.
Fuck.
I forgot. I actually forgot I was half-naked. That's how scrambled my brain is right now.
"Right." I scrub a hand over my face. "I'll just—yeah."
I head for the stairs. Take them two at a time. Get to my room. Close the door behind me.
Idiot. Complete fucking idiot.
Told her I loved her while running away. While trying to flee my own kitchen because I can't be in the same room with her without losing my mind. Standing there with no shirt on, shaking like a junkie, telling her it's fine if she never wants me.
Real fucking eloquent, Moore.
I lean my forehead against the door. Bang it lightly against the wood. Once. Twice.
Get it together.
I push off and walk to the dresser. Pull open the top drawer. Stare at the stack of t-shirts like they're written in a language I don't speak.
Just pick one. Any one. Put it on. Go outside. Chop wood or whatever the fuck. Get away from her before I—
Footsteps on the stairs.
My whole body goes rigid.
Please keep walking. Please go to the bathroom. Please don't—
The footsteps stop. Door opens.
Right behind me.
I can feel her. The heat of her. So close there's barely a breath between us. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My hands are gripping the edge of the drawer so hard the wood bites into my fingers.
"Turn around."
I shouldn't. If I turn around, if I look at her—
"Blake. Turn around."
I turn around.
Because she asked. Because she could ask me to walk into traffic right now and I'd do it. Because my body isn't mine anymore. It's hers. Has been for months.
My back hits the dresser. She's right there. Those wide eyes staring up at me. Searching my face.
"I want you."
Three words. They hit me like a fist to the sternum. I grip the drawer pull behind me. Knuckles going white. The wood creaks under my hand.
"I'm ready," she says.
She steps back. Reaches for the hem of Reid's t-shirt. Pulls it over her head.
And she's naked.
Completely fucking naked.
Standing in my bedroom. Biting her lip. Eyes a little worried, watching my reaction.
CRACK.
The drawer pull snaps off in my hand. I stare at it stupidly for a second, then drop it on the floor.
When I look back at her, she's still standing there. Bare skin. Soft curves. Marks from Reid scattered across her collarbone, her hip, her inner thigh. And mine—that dark bruise on her neck, right where I put it.
My chest is heaving. When did I stop breathing? When did I start again?
"I didn't shower yet." She wraps her arms around herself. Cheeks flushing. "Maybe I should—I mean, I still have—from last night—"
"Laine." My voice sounds like gravel. Like something broken.
"I want you so fucking much. Maybe too much.
" I shake my head. Try to find words that make sense.
Try to be honest even though honesty right now is terrifying.
"I can't—I'm not. Fuck." Deep breath. "I don't think I can give us the kind of first time you deserve. I'm too raw."
She should leave. Go shower. Give me time to get my shit together. Give us both time.
Instead she steps closer.
Takes my hand.
Guides it between her thighs.
She's soaked. Fucking dripping. Her wetness coats my fingers and my brain goes dark.
Every thought I've ever had. Every wall I built.
Every promise to be patient, every reason I've been holding back.
Gone. Wiped clean. There's nothing left except her.
The heat of her. The slick slide of her against my fingers.
The way her breath hitches when I press against her.
"I want you," she whispers. "Have wanted you. For so long." Her hand tightens over mine, pressing my palm against her. "I don't want to wait."
I've waited my whole life for this. For her. For someone who'd see every broken, ugly, fucked-up piece of me and still stand here naked in my bedroom saying I want you.
I snap.
I grab her. Both hands on her waist, lifting her, spinning us. She gasps as her back hits the mattress, and then I'm over her, covering her with my body, my mouth finding hers.
The kiss is desperate. Not an ounce of fucking finesse. All teeth and need and the sound she makes when I bite her bottom lip—this broken little whimper that I feel in my spine, makes me groan.
Her hands are in my hair. Pulling. Scratching. Her legs wrap around my waist and she arches up against me and I'm so hard it hurts. I've been hard for hours. For days. For months.
"Blake—"
"Tell me to stop." I drag my mouth down her throat. Bite the spot where her pulse is hammering. "You fucking own me, baby. Tell me to slow down and I will. But you have to tell me. Because I can't—I don't—"
"Don't stop." Her nails dig into my shoulders. "Don't you dare stop."