Chapter 8 - Nash
*Especially if it's real.*
I'm holding her in my lap, her dress bunched around her waist, my fingers still wet from being inside her, and I can't believe this is happening.
Can't believe she wants this to be real.
Wants me to be real.
I've spent three months telling myself she was untouchable. That wanting her was a fantasy I'd never act on. That the best I could hope for was being her silent guardian, the neighbor who watched over her from a distance.
And now she's in my arms, looking at me like I'm something precious, telling me she wants this to be real.
I should be happy. I am happy. But there's a knot in my stomach that won't go away because she doesn't know. She doesn't know what she's signing up for.
"Claire," I start. "There are things you need to know about me."
She tilts her head, studying my face. "Okay."
"Things that might change your mind about this."
"I don't think—"
"Let me finish." I take a breath. "I want you. More than I've wanted anything in a long time. But I'm not… I'm not an easy person to be with."
She's quiet, waiting. The words are harder to find than they should be. I've never talked about this with anyone. Never had reason to.
"I saw things," I say finally. "In the job. Bad things. Buildings collapsing. People who didn't make it out. My captain died three feet from me and I couldn't—"
I stop, my throat closing up. Her hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my heart. Grounding me.
"I have nightmares," I continue. "Most nights. I wake up at three a.m. thinking I'm back in a burning building. Sometimes I can't tell what's real for a few minutes. Sometimes I—"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes I need to be alone." I force myself to meet her eyes. "I need space to deal with it. It's not about you. It's never about whoever I'm with. It's just… I can't be around people when it gets bad. Can't stand to be touched or talked to until it passes."
She's still looking at me with those big brown eyes, and I can't read her expression.
"I'm fucked up, Claire. I'm scarred inside and out and I'm old and I'm—"
"You're not old," she interrupts.
"I'm seventeen years older than you."
"So?"
"So that matters. I've lived a whole life already. I'm retired. My body's held together with scar tissue and stubbornness. You should be with someone who—"
"Stop." Her voice is firm. "Stop telling me what I should want."
I close my mouth.
"You think I don't have issues?" she asks.
"You think I'm some perfect girl with no baggage?
Nash, I moved to the middle of nowhere because I couldn't handle living near my parents anymore.
I have anxiety that makes me check the locks three times before bed.
I cry at insurance commercials. I stress-eat entire bags of chips and then feel guilty about it for days. I'm a mess too."
"That's not the same."
"Why not?"
"Because your issues don't include waking up in the middle of the night thinking the house is on fire. Don't include flinching when someone comes up behind you too fast. Don't include—"
"PTSD," she says quietly.
I flinch at the words.
"You have PTSD," she says again, not a question this time. "From the job."
"Never got diagnosed. Never saw anyone about it."
"But you know that's what it is."
"Yeah." The admission costs me. "I know."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I brace myself for her to pull away. To realize this is too much. That I'm too much. Instead, she shifts in my lap, getting more comfortable, and wraps her arms around my neck.
"Okay," she says.
I stare at her. "Okay?"
"Okay. You have PTSD. You have nightmares. You need space sometimes. I can work with that."
"Claire—"
"Do you get violent? When you wake up from nightmares?"
"No. Never."
"Do you take it out on people around you?"
"No. I just need to be alone until I can get my head straight."
"Okay. So, when that happens, you tell me. You say 'I need space' and I'll give you space. It's not complicated."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
Because every other person in my life has eventually gotten tired of dealing with it.
Because the last woman I tried to date lasted three weeks before she decided my baggage was too heavy to carry.
Because I'm convinced that eventually Claire will realize she deserves better and I'll have to watch her walk away.
But I don't say any of that.
"What if it's too much?" I ask instead. "What if you can't handle it?"
"Then I'll tell you," she says simply. "Just like you'll tell me if I do something that triggers you. We'll figure it out as we go. That's what people do, Nash. They communicate."
She makes it sound so easy.
Maybe it is easy. Maybe I've been making it harder than it needs to be.
"You really want this?" I ask. "Want me? Even knowing—"
"Yes." She doesn't hesitate. "I want you. All of you. The parts that are easy and the parts that are hard. The nightmares and the scars and whatever else comes with you."
Something in my chest loosens.
"I'm going to fuck this up," I warn her.
"Probably. I'll fuck it up too. We'll fuck it up together."
Despite everything, I smile. "You've got an answer for everything."
"It's my superpower." She leans in and kisses me softly. "So, are we doing this? For real?"
"Yeah." I pull her closer. "For real."
She smiles against my lips and kisses me again, deeper this time. And just like that, the knot in my stomach is gone.
We sit there for a while, just kissing. Slow and lazy and perfect. The rain is still coming down hard outside, drumming on the roof, and I've never been more grateful for a broken-down car in my life.
Claire shifts in my lap and I feel it immediately, the way her body presses against mine, the softness of her thighs on either side of my hips. And my cock, which had finally calmed down after she sucked me dry, starts to take notice.
She feels it too. I know because she makes a small sound and rocks against me slightly.
"Again?" she murmurs against my mouth.
"Can't help it. You're in my lap."
"Should I move?"
"Don't you dare."
She laughs, grinds down, and I groan. I'm getting hard again. Fast. Already thinking about what it would feel like to be inside her. To peel that dress off and see all of her. To spread her out and taste her properly instead of just using my fingers.
But we're in a car. A small car. On the side of the road.
"We should probably try to get some sleep," I say, even though sleep is the last thing on my mind.
"Probably," she agrees.
Neither of us moves. Her hips rock again and I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her underwear. Can feel how wet she still is.
"Claire."
"Yeah?"
"If you keep doing that, I'm going to fuck you in this car."
She goes very still. Then, quietly: "Okay."
My brain short-circuits. "What?"
"Okay. Fuck me."
"I—" I can't think. Can't process. "Here?"
"Why not?"
"Because—" I gesture vaguely at the cramped interior. "There's no room. You deserve better than the front seat of a car for your first time with me."
"Who says this is my first time?"
"First time with me," I clarify. "I want to do it right. Bed, privacy, time to—"
"Nash." She cups my face in her hands. "We're stuck here until morning anyway. I'm already in your lap. You're already hard. I'm already soaking wet. And I really, really want you inside me."
Fuck.
"You're sure?"
"So sure."
"It's going to be cramped."
"I don't care."
"Uncomfortable."
"Don't care."
"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," I tell her, and I mean it.
"Good," she breathes.
That's it. I'm done pretending I have any self-control left.
I kiss her hard, one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding up under her dress to grip her hip. She moans into my mouth and grinds down against me, and my cock hardens and throbs.
"We need to get this dress off," I growl against her lips.
"How?"
Good question. The car is too small for her to stand up. Too cramped for easy maneuvering.
"Lift your arms," I tell her.
She does, and I grab the hem of her dress and pull it up and over her head including my shirt. And then she's kneeling in my lap in just her underwear, black lace bra and matching panties that are absolutely soaked through.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe.
She's perfect. Soft curves and smooth skin and so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at her.
"Your turn," she says, tugging at my undershirt.
I pull it off and toss it into the back seat, and her eyes go wide.
I know what she's seeing. The scars that cover my chest and arms and ribs. The thick, raised one across my side from the beam. The burns on my shoulder. The surgical scar from where they had to put my collarbone back together.
I'm a mess. A roadmap of everything that's gone wrong. But she's not looking at me with pity or disgust. She's looking at me like I'm a feast and she's starving.
Her hands come up to trace the scar across my ribs, feather-light. "Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore. Just aches sometimes when it rains."
"It's raining now."
"I know."
"Does it hurt?"
"I don't feel anything right now except you."
She leans in and kisses the scar. Then the one on my shoulder. Then the burns on my chest. I'm going to lose my fucking mind.
"Claire—"
"I want to see all of them someday," she murmurs against my skin. "Every single scar. I want you to tell me the story of each one."
"That'll take a while."
"We have time."
We do. We have all the time in the world now.
I reach between us and hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties. "Lift up."
She rises on her knees and I pull them down her thighs. She has to maneuver awkwardly to get them off in the confined space, but finally they're gone, tossed somewhere in the car.
Now she's naked except for the bra. I slide my hand between her legs and she gasps. Still soaking wet. Hot and slick and ready. Claire looks down at it, then back up at me. "I don't know if it's going to fit."
"It'll fit."
"You're really big."
"We'll make it fit." I grip her hip with one hand and guide myself to her entrance with the other. "Slow. We'll go slow."
She nods and starts to lower herself onto me. The head of my cock pushes into her and we both groan.
"Fuck," I grit out. "You're so tight."
"Too tight?"
"Perfect. Don't stop."
She sinks down another inch and I feel her body resisting, clenching around me.
"Relax," I tell her. "Breathe."
She takes a shaky breath and sinks down further.
"That's it. That's my girl. Take your time."
Inch by inch, she takes me deeper. Her face is flushed, her breath coming in short gasps, and I'm holding onto my control by a thread. Finally, she's fully seated in my lap, my cock buried deep inside her.
"Oh my god," she whispers.
"You okay?"
"I'm so full. I can feel you everywhere."
"Good." I grip her hips with both hands. "Now move. Slowly."