18. Rhys #2
I should've let go. Should've pushed past her and walked away. Should've done literally anything except stand there trapped between her hands and the wall, drowning in the scent of her shampoo and coffee and something uniquely hers.
"I'm trying to do the right thing." My voice dropped to gravel. Barely recognizable.
"For who?" She leaned closer. Close enough her breath ghosted across my jaw. "Because it's killing me. And it looks like it's killing you too."
I didn't understand her bravery. After all she'd been through…
And I was the fucking coward.
"My first time wasn't a mistake." Her words detonated through my chest.
The confession hung between us—quiet, raw, pleading. Her voice broke on wasn't, and the fracture in that single syllable tore through every defense I had left.
My first time.
First.
The implication slammed into me with the force of a charging forward. She'd given me something I had no right to take. Something precious. Irreplaceable. And I'd walked out like it meant nothing.
Like she meant nothing.
"Olivia—" Her name cracked apart in my throat.
She tilted her face up. Eyes shining. Determined despite the fear swimming beneath. Braver than I'd ever been. Braver than any woman who'd survived what she had should have to be.
And I was the coward. The one running. The one too terrified to reach for what stood directly in front of me, offering herself despite every reason not to.
Something inside me snapped.
The restraint I'd clung to for weeks. The control that defined every aspect of my life. The careful distance between want and action.
All of it shattered.
My hands moved before thought caught up—gripping her wrists, spinning her around, lifting them, pinning them above her head against the cold concrete wall. Gentle but absolute. Not restraint—desperation. Needing to anchor her, anchor us, before I fell apart completely.
She gasped. Soft. Surprised.
My forehead dropped to hers. Breathing her in. Close enough her exhale became my inhale. Our noses brushed. Her pulse hammered under my thumbs where I held her wrists together.
"I tried." The confession tore out of me. Raw. Broken. "I tried to stay away."
"Don't." Her whisper shook. "Please don't."
I kissed her.
No hesitation. No careful testing of boundaries. Just need—violent and consuming and months past restraint. My mouth crashed against hers like coming up for air after drowning. Like she was oxygen and I'd been suffocating since the moment I walked out of her apartment.
She made a sound against my lips. Small. Desperate.
Her body arched into mine, seeking contact everywhere we touched—chest to chest, hips aligned, her wrists flexing under my grip but not fighting. Not pulling away. Pressing closer despite being trapped between me and the wall.
I was drowning. Had been drowning since the first moment I saw her behind that café counter. Maybe longer. Maybe since the night I carried her out of that house fifteen years ago and felt the weight of her trust settle into my bones like permanence.
Her lips parted beneath mine. Invitation. Permission I didn't deserve but took, anyway.
The kiss deepened. Turned frantic. All heat and hunger and the taste of her—sweet and coffee-bitter and everything I'd been denying myself. My free hand found her hip, gripped too tight, pulled her impossibly closer until no space remained between us.
She whimpered. Arched higher. Chasing the contact like she needed it to survive.
I understood completely. This felt inevitable. Like fighting gravity. Like denying the sun would rise. Every choice I'd made to create distance had only delayed what we both knew would happen the moment our walls crumbled.
Her hands twisted under mine—not escape, just restless energy seeking outlet. I released her wrists.
Immediately her fingers tangled in my hair. Pulling. Demanding. Holding me to her like I might disappear again.
I ripped myself away.
The separation felt like tearing skin. Like violence. My chest heaved, lungs fighting for air that wouldn't come. Every muscle locked rigid with the effort of not closing that distance again.
Olivia stood frozen against the wall. Lips swollen. Eyes dark and dazed. Chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm that matched my own ragged breathing.
I backed up another step. Then another. Hands shaking at my sides.
"If I touch you again, I won't be able to stop."
The words came out rough. Desperate. A warning she needed to heed because my control was hanging by a thread so thin it was already fraying.
She didn't move away. Didn't run. Just stared at me with those eyes that saw too much. "Maybe I don't want you to stop."
The whisper punched through my chest. Soft. Certain. Devastating.
My jaw clenched so hard something popped. "Don't say things like that."
"Don't tell me what to—"
I snapped. Closed the distance in one stride and crashed my mouth to hers.
Harder this time. Consuming. Past restraint or reason or any pretense of control.
My hands buried in her hair, angling her head exactly where I needed it.
She gasped against my lips and I swallowed the sound, pressed her harder into the wall, feeling her body mold to mine like we'd been designed to fit together.
Her fingers clawed at my shoulders. Pulling. Demanding. Matching my desperation with her own.
This was insanity. Reckless. Everything I'd sworn I wouldn't do.
I didn't care.
Her taste flooded my senses—sweet and sharp and perfectly her. The small sounds she made drove me wild. Need built in my chest, my stomach, lower. Dangerous. Overwhelming. The kind that led to decisions I couldn't take back.
Stop. Stop now before you ruin everything.
I tore myself away mid-kiss. Stumbled backward. Put three feet of space between us before I could change my mind. My hands clenched into fists. Breathing like I'd just finished overtime.
Olivia sagged against the wall. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Looking as wrecked as I felt.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence pressed down. Heavy with everything we couldn't say. Everything I couldn't let happen no matter how badly I wanted it.
I turned away. Fast. Before I could watch her face crumble. Before I could see the hurt bloom in those eyes and break completely.
My feet carried me down the corridor. Each step fought against every instinct screaming to turn back. To apologize. To explain why I kept doing this—kept touching her like she mattered then walking away like she didn't.
My shoulders shook. Trembling with the effort of keeping forward momentum. Hands clenched so tight my nails bit crescents into my palms.
Don't look back. Don't turn around. Don't—
Her voice didn't follow. No footsteps chased me down the empty hallway. Just silence. Heavy. Devastating.
Good.
She needed to let me go. Needed to understand I was poison. That everything I touched turned sharp and ruined. That staying would only hurt her worse than leaving ever could.
The exit loomed ahead. Emergency lighting casting everything red.
My hand hit the bar. Metal cold against overheated skin.
If I stayed, I'd ruin her.
The door swung open. Night air hit my face like a slap.
I didn't look back. Couldn't.
The door closed behind me with a hollow click of finality.