Chapter 6 - Eli #2
"I lost three men that day," I say. "Marcus, DeShawn, and Cooper. Good men. Better than me. They had families waiting for them. Kids. Futures."
"And you blame yourself," she says softly.
"I should've seen it. Should've known. That's my job: to keep them safe, to bring them home. And I didn't."
"It was an IED. Hidden. You couldn't have known."
"I should have."
"Eli—"
"I should have," I repeat, and there's an edge to my voice that makes Ridge lift his head. "That's what command means. Their lives were my responsibility, and I failed them."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "How many men did you bring home?"
I look at her. "What?"
"You said you lost three. How many were under your command total?"
"Eight."
"So, you brought five men home safe."
"That's not—"
"Five men who got to see their families again because of you. Five men who are alive right now because you did your job."
"Three died."
"And five lived." She leans forward slightly. "I'm not saying the three don't matter. I'm not saying you shouldn't grieve them. But you can't only count the losses and ignore the wins. That's not fair to you, and it's not fair to the men who made it home because of you."
I want to argue. Want to tell her she doesn't understand. But there's something in what she said that hits differently than all the therapy sessions and well-meaning conversations I've had over the years.
Maybe because she's not trying to make me feel better. She's just pointing out a fact.
Five men lived.
I brought five men home.
"It still hurts," I say quietly.
"I know." Her voice is gentle. "And it probably always will. But hurting doesn't mean you failed. It just means you cared."
I stare at the fire, trying to get my breathing under control. Trying to remember why I built these walls in the first place.
"You cared," I repeat, testing the words. "Yeah. I did."
"And you still do."
"Every goddamn day."
She moves then. I hear the couch shift, and suddenly she's closer. Not right next to me, but closer.
I make the mistake of looking at her.
Her hair is still damp from the rain, drying in waves around her face.
And as I watch, a drop of water trails down from behind her ear, sliding along the curve of her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of my flannel shirt.
The shirt that's too big on her, hanging open just enough that I can see the soft swell of her breasts, the shadow of cleavage.
Her lips are slightly parted. Rosy and full and—
Fuck.
I'm hard. Instantly, painfully hard. My body responding to her proximity in a way I haven't let myself feel in years, and there's nowhere to hide it, nowhere to go except—
I stand abruptly, turning toward the fireplace. Pretending I need to adjust the logs. Pretending my hands aren't shaking and my cock isn't straining against my jeans and my entire body isn't screaming at me to turn around and—
"Eli."
Her voice is soft. Right behind me.
She followed me. She got up and followed me, and now she's close enough that I can feel her heat, the smell the goddamn soap, and I'm losing my fucking mind.
Then I feel it. Her hand. On my shoulder. The touch is light, but it burns through my shirt like a brand.
"I'm right here," she whispers. "For whatever you need."
Whatever I need.
She has no fucking idea what I need right now. No idea that I'm standing here trying not to turn around and pin her against the nearest wall. No idea that I want to strip her out of my clothes and taste every inch of her skin. No idea that it's taking every ounce of control I have left not to—
"You have no idea what I need," I say, my voice coming out rough and strained.
"I don't," she agrees. "That's why I said whatever."
Christ. She's not making this easier.
"Go back and sit down, Jade."
"No."
"Jade—"
"We're getting somewhere now. I'm not going anywhere."
Something in me snaps.
I can't do this anymore. Can't keep pretending.
Can't keep holding everything so tight that I'm breaking from the inside out.
I just poured my fucking heart out to her.
I told her things I haven't told anyone, and my hands are shaking and my body is screaming and for the first time in six years, I want something.
Want to do something for myself. Want to come back to real life instead of just surviving it.
I turn around.
She's right there. Close enough to touch. Looking up at me with those blue eyes that see too much, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
And I kiss her.
My hands come up to frame her face, palms against her cheeks, fingers sliding into her damp hair, and I crush my mouth to hers like a man who's been starving and just found food.
She makes a sound, surprise or relief, and then she's kissing me back.
Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and I angle her head to deepen the kiss. She tastes like the food we had earlier and when her lips part beneath mine, I don't hesitate. I sweep my tongue into her mouth, claiming, demanding, taking everything she's offering.
She melts against me. Her body soft and pliant and perfect against mine, and I can feel every curve of her through the thin fabric of my clothes. The swell of her breasts pressed to my chest. The way her stomach yields when I pull her tighter.
I should stop. Should pull back. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
But I can't.
Because she's kissing me like she wants this just as much as I do. Like she's been waiting for this. Like I'm not too broken or too damaged or too much.
Her hands slide up from my chest to my shoulders, her fingers digging in, and when I feel her nails through my shirt, a groan rumbles up from my chest.
I break the kiss just long enough to look at her: to make sure this is real, that she's real, that I'm not imagining this. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. Her lips are swollen and wet. Her chest is heaving.
"Eli," she breathes.
And I kiss her again.