Chapter 28
I couldn’t help myself, I had to kiss her at that moment. “Sorry,” I tell her. The last thing she probably wanted was for me to kiss her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, just tilts her head and asks, “Why not?”
“Because I doubt you wanted me to kiss you,” I tell her honestly. I decided earlier today in my therapy session that, from now on, Sloane is getting the truth, and only the truth, from me. She’s getting the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Like a parrot, she tilts her head and asks, “Why not?”
Sensing her playfulness, I ask, “Did you want me to kiss you?”
“Was I expecting it? No. Do I hate you for doing it? No. But I do think we need to go over certain things before you do that again,” she says, and I try not to let my apprehension show on my face, but not once has a sentence like that ever sounded good.
“What things?” I ask again, putting the ball in her court.
She rolls her eyes, this time with a smile, before saying, “Let’s start easy. You never told me if your scars hurt.”
That’s easy? Nothing about this fucked-up situation is easy. From waking up in the hospital, to the nightmares, the canes, and the scars. It’s all hard. It’s all dog shit.
The truth. Sloane is only getting the truth, I chant to myself before answering. “Yes. They’re tight, they itch, and they pull when I move too quickly, or when I forget they’re there. Plus, they’re fucken horrendous to look at.”
“Is there anything you can do to help with that?” she asks, lightly running her fingertips on the edge where unmarred skin touches red skin.
“Yeah. I’m supposed to keep it hydrated and try to massage it at least once a day,” I explain.
“Supposed to?” she asks.
“It’s not the easiest or most pleasant thing to do, and I can’t reach the entire thing, so I don’t do it as much as I should,” I admit.
“Men,” I hear her mumble under her breath before she starts moving away from me. Immediately, I miss the feel of her in my lap, in my arms.
“Let’s go then,” she says, making her way to the hall where our bedrooms are located.
“Go where?” I ask, following her like a lost puppy.
She walks into her room without a word.
Unsure, I stop in her doorway when she says, “Well, come on then,” gesturing to her bed.
“What?” I ask, getting irritated.
Rolling her eyes, she says, “Get on the bed so I can massage this cream into your scars and we can keep talking about what we need to talk about. Two birds, one stone.”
She stands there, looking at me, daring me to tell her no. I know better than to say no to Sloane Callahan when she’s already made up her mind, though. I decide to pick my battles and hobble over to her bed, lying in the center. She wastes no time straddling my hips with a tube of cream in hand.
“I hope you don’t mind the smell of caramel peach,” she says absentmindedly, before squeezing some into her hand.
Do I mind the smell of caramel peach? She can’t be serious? Has she really not caught me sniffing her? Plus, she knows about my candle collection—or obsession, I should say.
I’m brought out of my thoughts by Sloane’s hands running down my side. Immediately, my hands clench around her thick white duvet and my jaw clenches. Her touch brings me back to only a few short days ago when her hands were on my chest as she chased her orgasm.
Her eyes stay on her task, not meeting mine, and her face stays neutral, but her lower lip finds its way under her upper teeth. I watch her intently, waiting to see disgust appear on her face. Instead, her cheeks redden and her breath catches.
She clears her throat, letting her lip pop out from under her teeth, swiping her tongue along the offended lip. “So, we should probably talk about what happened the other day,” she starts.
“I think we already did,” I tell her. I bared my soul to her; I have nothing else to tell her.
“We talked about what happened, but we didn’t talk about what it means. About what happens now,” she clarifies with an edge to her voice.
I hadn’t even thought of what happens now. I honestly thought she’d want nothing to do with me, even after I’d apologized. She deserves someone who isn’t messed up like me. She needs someone as bright and sunny as she is. Not some older, moody asshole like me.
She wouldn’t be sitting on you, rubbing her peach-scented lotion on you, if she wanted someone else. Come on, Liam. For some reason, it’s Summer’s voice I hear in my head, telling me to just go for it.
Looking up at her, I see her eyebrows frown at my silence, but before I can say anything, appease her worry, she hops off the bed and motions for me to turn over to my stomach so she can get to the scars on my back.
She straddles my hips once again, without a word.
Again, she starts to softly run her hands up and down my back, digging her thumbs in the tight muscle, which has me letting out a short, deep moan.
All the sleepless nights, the tensing from the pain, the strain of using the crutches and now the cane have taken a toll on my body, not to mention getting hit by a car. Slowly, Sloane is working all the tensions and knots out of my body and I feel myself relax even more into her soft duvet.
Sensing that she won’t say anything until I do, I start.
“I’m going to be honest here, Sloane—you deserve honesty,” I tell her.
Honesty is easier to do when I don’t have to watch the emotions play out on her face.
“I’d like for that to happen again . . .
” I feel her tense at my words. Does she not want us to continue down that path?
Does she want to have me living here, just as her roommate, until my time is up?
Will she avoid me like she used to once I move out?
Never mind moving out or ignoring me, there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to see her start a life with some undeserving asshole.
You mean an undeserving asshole like you? My self consciousness makes itself known.
Before I can continue, she cuts through the silence. “Oh, okay . . .”
She lets those two single words hang in the air between us, not adding anything.
Did she not like our time together?
Be clear, Dumbass, I hear Summer’s voice say again.
“What I mean to say is, I want this to continue; I want to see where this will lead. I want to keep getting to know you, to know who you’ve become over the years.” Be honest, I tell myself. “I want to date you, Sloane.”
At my words, she once again gets off of me. I instantly turn back over so I’m lying on my back to catch a glimpse of her face. Once again, she wastes no time getting back into bed with me, this time kneeling beside me.
“I’d like that,” she simply says, before lying down next to me, placing her head on my chest.
We stay silent as her fingers feather random patterns on my chest, and I run my fingers through her silky soft hair.
As always, having her near me settles me.
Everything is right with her in my arms. There’s no way I’m letting her out of my sight this time.
I don’t care if I’m hobbling around for the rest of my days, I won’t let her run again.
I will chase her. She’s run twice now—never again.
She’s mine, and will be mine until my last breath.
With that possessiveness in mind, I decide to do what I should have done the moment I realized she was mine—the moment I saw her again for the first time. I’ll show her that I am worthy.
I’ll show what a man in love is like.