20. Chapter 20 #3
“Reassurance is me telling you none of that will happen.”
“And honesty?”
I took a breath. “Honesty is telling you I don’t know.”
Pain flickered across his face.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I said.
“I don’t know whether you’ll struggle again.
I don’t know whether I’ll panic and start trying to control everything because that’s what I do when I’m afraid.
But I know I’m here because I want to be.
I know what I feel for you is real, even if I’m not ready to give it a bigger name than that. ”
Something in his expression softened.
Relief, maybe.
“I’m not ready either,” he admitted.
“Good.”
His eyebrows lifted.
I laughed softly. “Not good that you’re confused. Good that we don’t have to pretend we know exactly what this is.”
“I know I want you,” he said.
My pulse kicked hard.
“I know I think about you when you’re not there. I know when you left, it fucked me up worse than I wanted to admit.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “And I know I don’t want you here because you can fix me.”
My eyes burned.
“I want you here because you’re you.”
That was the sentence that undid me.
Not a declaration.
Not forever.
Just me.
I leaned forward until my forehead rested against his.
“I’m scared too,” I whispered.
“Of me?”
“No.” I drew back enough to see him. “That my control issues will suffocate you. That I’ll try to therapize your emotions instead of feeling my own. That I’ll get scared and put every wall back up because leaving first has always felt safer than waiting to see whether someone else will.”
Colt studied me.
Then his mouth curved faintly. “So we’re both a mess.”
I let out a wet laugh. “That’s your takeaway?”
“Seems accurate.”
“It’s reductive.”
“Therapizing.”
I groaned.
His smile widened.
I should have moved away.
Instead, I stayed with my forehead against his, smiling despite myself.
His hand remained against my face.
The simple intimacy of it felt more exposing than the kiss in my office ever had.
That kiss had been desperation.
This was choice.
“I should go,” he said eventually.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
He felt it.
Of course he did.
“You’re still healing,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“And tired.”
“Also yeah.”
“And I assume you drove yourself.”
“Starting to feel judged.”
I ignored that, suddenly aware that my fingers were still wrapped around his wrist.
I loosened my grip.
Did not let go.
“Stay.”
Colt went completely still.
The word frightened me the second it existed outside my head.
“Tonight,” I said. “Just stay.”
His eyes searched mine. “You sure?”
No teasing.
No pressure.
That made the answer easier.
“Yes.”
“What does staying mean?”
I appreciated him so fiercely in that moment that it hurt.
“Sleeping.”
“Okay.”
“Actually sleeping.”
“Less exciting, but okay.”
A laugh escaped me, but the vulnerability remained.
“And being here when I wake up.”
The humor disappeared from his face.
“That part I can do.”
His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, slowly enough to give me time to stop him.
I did not want to.
The first kiss was nothing like the one in my office.
No collision.
No panic.
No desperate need to steal something before reality returned.
Colt kissed me slowly, carefully, like he was asking a question neither of us was ready to put into words.
I answered by moving closer.
My hand slid from his wrist to his shoulder, mindful of his ribs as his other arm settled around my waist. The room narrowed until there was only the warmth of his mouth and the rough brush of his thumb beneath my hair.
He pulled back first, not far.
“Still okay?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll tell me?”
“I will.”
Then I kissed him.
This time, I was the one who chose it.
Not Dr. Caroline.
Not the woman trying to save him.
Just me.
His hand tightened slightly at my waist, and I felt the answering pull low in my stomach, immediate enough to frighten me with its intensity. I wanted him. That was not new.
Allowing myself to want him without burying the feeling beneath guilt was.
I broke the kiss before the heat between us could outrun the conversation we had spent the evening trying to have.
Colt’s breathing was rough.
So was mine.
“That,” he murmured, “did not feel like sleeping.”
I laughed against his mouth. “No.”
“Just checking.”
I drew back enough to look at him.
For once, I did not analyze what came next. I did not calculate the correct pace or search for a professional framework that no longer belonged between us.
I only knew that he was here.
That I had asked him to stay.
That when he looked at me, I did not feel like his therapist.
And when I looked at him, I did not see a patient.
I saw a man I wanted to know beyond the worst things that had ever happened to him.
A man who knew some of the ugliest, most frightened parts of me and had come to my door anyway.
We did not have a name for what we were becoming.
For the first time, I let that be enough.
I slipped my hand beneath the hem of his shirt, feeling the warm ridge of his abdomen under my fingertips.
His skin was slick with a faint sheen of sweat, and I traced the line of his ribs before pressing my palm flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.
I leaned in, pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat, sucking gently as I heard his breath hitch.
His hands slid up my back, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, urging me lower.
I obeyed, dragging my mouth down his sternum, over the dip of his navel, until I reached the waistband of his jeans.
I unfastened the button with a slow, deliberate tug, the metal clicking softly in the quiet room.
The zipper gave way with a quiet sigh, and I peeled the denim back, revealing the hard length of his cock straining against the cotton of his boxers.
I breathed in his scent—musky, warm, tinged with the faint cologne he wore—and let my tongue flick out to wet the tip of his shaft through the fabric.
He groaned, a low, raw sound that vibrated through his hips and into my chest. I pushed the boxers down, freeing him, and his erection sprang forward, thick and veined, glistening at the tip with precum.
I wrapped my hand around his base, feeling the heat pulse through his flesh, and lowered my mouth onto him.
I took him in slowly, letting the head slide past my lips, sucking firmly as I drew back, then sinking deeper until I felt the back of my throat brush against him.
His hips jerked involuntarily, a soft gasp escaping him as I began a steady rhythm—sucking, swirling my tongue around the ridge, hollowing my cheeks, then pulling off to lap at the slickness leaking from his tip.
His fingers tightened in my hair, not to push me deeper but to hold me there, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
I could feel the tension coiling in his belly, the way his thighs trembled each time I swallowed him down.
I wanted to make him lose himself, to hear him shout my name, but before I could get lost in the taste of him, he shifted.
“Wait,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire and something softer—care. He pulled my head back just enough to look into my eyes, his gaze dark and earnest. “I want this to be about you right now.”
His words sent a shiver through me, a mix of surprise and a deep, aching need to be seen.
I nodded, my lips still swollen from his cock, and he gently guided me to lie back against the pillows, his hands sliding up my thighs to push my skirt up.
He paused, his fingertips brushing the soft skin of my inner thigh, teasing the edge of my panties before slipping them aside.
He leaned over me, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me what you need,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear it.
I swallowed, my throat dry. “I want you to feel me,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I want to know you’re here with me.”
He smiled, a slow, genuine curve of his lips, and then his hand moved.
One finger slipped between my folds, slick with my own arousal, and he began to rub slow, deliberate circles over my clit.
The sensation was electric, a sharp spike of pleasure that made my back arch off the mattress.
I gasped, my hands gripping the sheets as he added a second finger, sliding them inside me, curling just enough to press against the spot that made my vision blur.
His thumb continued its relentless pressure on my clit while his fingers pumped in and out, a steady, deep rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart.
I could feel every ridge, every pulse of his touch, and each thrust sent a wave of heat coiling tighter in my lower belly.
My breath came in short, ragged gasps, and I found myself arching into his hand, chasing the building crescendo.
“Colt…” I moaned, his name a broken plea on my lips.
He leaned down, capturing my mouth in a fierce kiss, swallowing my cries as his fingers worked faster, the pressure intensifying.
I felt the tension snap, a bright, white-hot explosion radiating from my core, shaking through my limbs.
I cried out against his mouth, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over me, each pulse drawing a shuddering gasp from my lips.