Chapter 52 Blake
BLAKE
THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR startles me. My grandfather is still at his curling game, so I hop off the couch and go to answer the door. I’m frowning as I open it, already expecting to be annoyed with whoever decided to show up announced after eight, so I freeze when I find Wyatt standing on the porch.
Holding Hot Boi.
My mouth falls open in shock. I look from the toaster to his bruised knuckles, then lift my gaze to his. “What did you do?”
Wyatt shrugs. “He made it harder than it needed to be.”
Despite myself, laughter sputters out. “Oh my God. Come in.”
He enters the house but doesn’t move farther than the front entrance. He holds out Hot Boi, and I accept the toaster gratefully while sweeping my gaze over Wyatt. He looks good. So good. God, I missed every inch of that gorgeous face.
I’m relieved to see he’s free of bruises. As far as I can tell, all the damage is confined to his knuckles, which bodes well. I hope he punched Isaac in his stupid, toaster-stealing face.
“I can’t believe you fought him over a toaster.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitches in a ghost of a smile. “I mean, you’ve been fighting him all summer. My beef only lasted, like, four minutes.”
I feel like I should scold him, but I can’t muster up a rebuke. I’m too touched that he did this. And too distracted by how beautiful he looks.
“Anyway. That’s all I came for. Just wanted to drop it off.” He turns toward the door.
“Wait.”
The word flies out before I can stop it.
Wyatt’s gaze shifts back to me.
“Do you want to stay for a drink or something? I mean, it’s the least I can do after you fought my ex in my honor.”
He hesitates. Then his gaze softens, and he nods.
We walk to the kitchen, where I realize I have nothing to offer but red wine. Grandpa Tim doesn’t really drink, but he keeps a few bottles of merlot handy for guests.
“We’ve only got red,” I say.
“I’ll take a glass.”
I pour for both of us and pass him a wineglass. We stand on opposite ends of the counter. My gaze drops to his right hand again, his torn knuckles.
“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” I say ruefully. “Isaac holds a grudge.”
“I’d do it again.”
My hand trembles as I lift it to my lips.
The heady flavor coats my tongue and slides down my throat, but it does nothing to relax me.
The silence that falls over the kitchen is too tense and oppressive.
It’s too thick with everything that happened the last time we saw each other.
Heavy with everything we lost and crackling with everything I’m still aching for.
I missed him so much. My chest physically hurts from how much.
“How’s school going?” he finally asks.
I swallow. I guess we’re making small talk then.
“Terrible,” I confess. “I’m bored and frustrated. I have a meeting with my advisor this week to discuss my options.”
Wyatt’s brow furrows. “What options?”
“Graduating early. I might have the credits because of those two summer classes I took sophomore year. And if not, maybe I can finish out the year online instead of attending classes. I’m just so tired of being on campus.”
“What about your sorority?”
“I’ve basically checked out. I tried to officially resign, but Shaye—she’s our new president—refused to let me.” I roll my eyes. “She said it’s a bad look for Delta Pi. So I’m still a member and have to pay dues for the year, but they’re not making me participate in any sorority events.”
“That’s good, I guess.”
“Yeah.” I watch him over my glass. “How’s the album going?”
“We start recording next week. I’m nervous,” he admits.
“You’ll be great.”
Silence settles over the kitchen again. We drink to the sound of the refrigerator humming, and it drags on so long I have to avert my gaze.
He breaks first, his low, husky voice cutting through the tension.
“Nothing’s changed, freckles.”
I set down my glass because my hand is too unsteady. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing’s changed on my end. I still love you. I still want to be with you. I’m just waiting for you to say you want it too.”
My throat closes, so tight it ripples with pain. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is.” Frustration laces his words. “I loved you in Tahoe. And I love you now, here. All you have to do is…believe me.”
“I don’t know what I believe. I’m still such a fucking mess. My head is always spinning. My hormones are out of whack. I cry all the time. I can’t even tell if what I feel is real.”
Hurt fills his eyes. “You’re saying you don’t know if you love me?”
A helpless feeling twists my stomach. I lay both hands flat on the counter, needing to ground myself. “I’m saying I’m on an emotional roller coaster, and until I feel like myself again, I can’t be sure of what I want. And I can’t give you any answers.”
His features go taut for a moment, but then he swallows, relaxing his jaw. Slowly, he bridges the distance between us.
I suck in a shaky breath, torn between the longing in my chest and the crushing weight of doubt. He never told me he loved me before I got pregnant. He claims he felt it, but my brain keeps insisting that isn’t true, and the darkness inside me wants to push him away for it.
But when he slowly approaches and I whisper, “Wyatt,” I’m not sure if I’m asking him to come closer or to stop.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, and his touch is so gentle, so careful, that I almost burst into tears.
“Tell me to leave,” he says roughly.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Instead, I reach up and run my fingers over his jaw, feeling the tension there. “I don’t want you to go.”
That’s all it takes. I blink and his mouth is on mine. He tastes like wine and faintly of smoke, and I wonder if he’s picked up the habit again. If so, I hope it’s not because of me.
His lips brush over mine, and I’m confused by his kiss. How slow it is, how cautious. It’s a restraint I’ve never felt from Wyatt. He’s holding back.
“Kiss me for real,” I whisper. “The way you used to. Please.”
The request seems to undo him. With a strangled noise, he kisses me again, deeper this time, and my body lights up under his touch. I part my lips for him, and his tongue slides through them. When it touches mine, an electric shock surges through me.
When he pulls back, my breath gets trapped in my lungs. God, that look in his eyes. Like I’m the only thing that matters to him in this entire world. Or maybe I’m just projecting what I want to see, but I don’t care.
“Let’s go to my room,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
Am I sure? No.
Is this a bad idea? Probably.
Am I going to stop him? Not a chance.
Rather than answer, I take his hand and pull him toward the stairs. We don’t say a word as we go up to my bedroom. I close and lock the door, and we stand in the dim light of the bedside lamp that I forgot to turn off earlier, eyeing each other.
I miss you. The words burn my tongue. But I don’t think I can say them out loud without unleashing a wave of emotion.
He steps toward me, framing my face with both hands.
Then his mouth is on me again. He trails it along my jaw, down my neck, each kiss making my breath hitch.
But his control is slipping. I can feel it in the way he thrusts his fingers in my hair and pulls on it to guide my mouth closer to his.
I can hear it in the groan that rumbles in his chest when my tongue fills his mouth.
“I missed you,” he whispers between kisses. His breathing is labored. “Missed you so fucking much.”
I don’t say it back. I just kiss him again, and he plasters his body against mine as if there isn’t enough space in the world for the two of us to exist apart. When I feel his erection against my stomach, I let out a helpless, needy moan.
“Let me take care of you tonight,” he says. “I want you to just…let go. Nothing else matters right now. Just you and me, okay?”
A rush of heat ripples through me. “Okay,” I whisper.
I lie back on the bed, and he hovers above me, undressing me slowly, pulling off my sweatpants, my panties, my sweater. Each inch of skin he exposes makes his breathing grow heavier.
“You’re beautiful,” he says simply.
His clothes come off next, and then his warm, naked body covers mine, calloused hands sliding over my bare skin in slow, teasing caresses. His lips find my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath my ear.
I close my eyes and lose myself in sensation. In the feel of his mouth on my breasts, his tongue flicking my nipple. He isn’t rushing at all, but urgency simmers behind every kiss, every touch, as if he’s forcing himself to slow down.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs.
“I want this.” I swallow. “Do you?”
His eyes are swimming with emotion as he rises on his elbow to look at me.
“I’ve wanted you for so long I can’t even remember what it feels like to want anything else.”
His words make me dizzy, but he doesn’t give me time to fully absorb them.
He’s kissing his way down my body, his palms stroking my inner thighs before he gently parts my legs.
He lowers his head and plants a kiss on my pussy, soft and sweet.
Then he licks a gentle circle around my clit, and I gasp.
He looks up with that dark, intense gaze. “Feel good?”
“Yes.” I’m almost embarrassed by how fast the word escapes my mouth.
A smile curves his lips before he dips his head again and resumes his slow and dedicated mission to wreck me. And he does. He licks me until I’m mindless, long strokes interspersed with teasing flicks, his lips wrapping around my clit and sucking it, teasing it, making me whimper with pleasure.
By the time he puts on a condom and slides inside me, I’m a live wire waiting for a spark.
And the spark comes in the form of his cock filling me to the hilt.
I climax from that first, deep stroke, unraveling beneath him.
My orgasm only spurs him to move faster, thrusting his hips into me, his eyes open and fixed on my face.
You’d hate how much I’d want from you. How much I’d take.
His confession from early in the summer burns through my mind.
He’s wrong. I don’t hate it.
But it terrifies me.
My gaze stays locked with his as he comes, pleasure darkening his eyes and drawing a low, husky noise from his throat.
Afterward, he collapses on me, and I wrap my arms around him.
I lie beneath him, breathless not just from his weight on me but from the storm of emotion that swept through the bedroom.
When I feel the moisture on my shoulder, I realize I’m not the only one affected.
“Hey,” I say, running my fingers through his hair. “You okay?”
His broad body trembles, and my throat clamps shut when he lifts his head and I see his tears, his red-rimmed eyes.
“We lost our baby, Blake.” His voice cracks, and so does my heart. Right in two. Because it’s the last thing I need to hear right now. Or ever again.
As agony rips into me, I disentangle from his embrace, easing out from under him. He rolls onto his back, forearm covering his eyes, his breathing shallow.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why I can’t comfort him. The reasonable part of my brain knows that he suffered a loss too. This isn’t just about me. It was our loss. Not mine.
But I don’t have it in me to do this. To carry this for both of us. I suddenly can’t breathe. The tears pour out, soaking my cheeks and the pillow as I press my face against it.
Realizing I’m sobbing, Wyatt slides in behind me and wraps his arm around my trembling body.
“I’m sorry,” he says against my hair. “I shouldn’t have said that. Please don’t cry.”
I can’t stop, though. I cry even harder, because tonight it’s not just sorrow fueling the tears but also guilt. Because I’m not strong enough to take on Wyatt’s grief. I can barely handle my own.
“You should go,” I manage to choke out.
He only holds me tighter. “No. I’m not leaving you like this.”
Somehow, I find the strength to pull myself out of his arms. I fumble for my clothes, shoving my pants on. “You need to go. We can’t help each other right now.”
“Yes, we can.”
“No, Wyatt.” The guilt is burning my throat. “This isn’t fair to you. You’re so focused on taking care of me that you haven’t even been able to process this loss and deal with your own grief. And I’m barely managing to keep it together for myself, let alone both of us.”
On the bed, Wyatt sits up. He looks tired. Numb.
I slip my sweater over my head, seconds from collapsing on the floor and sobbing again.
“My grandpa will be home soon,” I finally say.
After a beat, Wyatt reaches for his boxers. “I’ll get out of your way then.”
Even though my heart is screaming in agony, I let him go.
Because if I beg him to stay, it wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.