27. Chapter 27 #2
He’s silent for a moment, and when he looks up at me, his expression is heartbreaking. “I don’t know, Emma,” his voice cracks into a sob. “Everything I did…everything that happened to me…happened for nothing. It was all for nothing.” He inhales sharply, as if suddenly triggered by something.
Instinctively, I tense. But he just shakes his head, willing whatever it was away. “I hope you know how strong you are.”
He looks up at me through tired eyes, and it makes something twist painfully in my chest. Because I don’t see the things he’s done, or the damage he keeps trying to bury me under. I see him, still fighting through everything that should have destroyed him a thousand times over.
Emotion crawls up my throat so fast I have to swallow it down before it spills out of me.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” I say softly, recognizing that what I’m about to say is something I tell my patients every day.
“It’s okay to ask for help. There’s no darkness that is greater than the light we carry. ”
His gaze lingers on mine, searching in a way that feels almost hesitant. “Half the time it feels like I’m just holding myself back. Like if I slip for a second—” He cuts himself off, like even the thought is too much.
I don’t let him stay there. I shift closer instead, slow enough that he can stop me if he needs to, but he doesn’t. He just watches me, something unsteady flickering behind his eyes as my hand finds his. His fingers are warm now, and they curl around mine immediately.
“I’m right here,” I murmur. “I’m always right here.”
A half-smirk tugs at his lips, and his grip tightens. “I know.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable at all. It’s just two people sitting together, sorting through years of thoughts and truths. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow, almost absent.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says quietly, barely a whisper.
“You won’t,” I answer gently.
His jaw flexes like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t pull away. So I close the distance instead, just enough that our knees brush.
“If you need something,” I say quietly, “you can tell me.”
His gaze drops for a split second, catching on my mouth before flicking away again, like the instinct surprises him. “I don’t know what I need,” he admits.
“That’s okay.”
Another pause settles between us, but this one feels different. His hand moves, sliding up my wrist before stopping there, hesitating like he’s waiting for me to pull away. I don’t.
“I just don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he whispers. “Part of me hated myself when I didn’t pull the trigger.”
My heart cracks at the honesty. I know I’ll likely be fighting for his life for years to come after this.
His eyes lift back to mine, and there’s a vulnerability that threatens to break me completely. My hand rises, brushing gently against his cheek. He stills under the touch, almost as if the kindness of it is something he’s no longer used to. I hate that so much.
My breath catches as his gaze flicks back to my mouth, lingering this time. There’s hesitation there, but it doesn’t stop him.
“Emma…” he murmurs, like he’s not sure what he’s asking for.
I can’t help but lean in first, my heart nearly bursting from my chest. I move slowly, giving him every chance to retreat. But he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still, his hazel eyes locked on my mouth, a storm of conflict swirling in them.
The second my lips brush against his, something snaps.
His hand, which had been resting on my arm, suddenly tightens, his fingers digging into my skin with an urgency that sends a jolt straight through me.
Then his palm slides up, cupping my cheek before moving to the side of my neck.
His thumb presses possessively against my pulse point as the kiss deepens.
His lips move over mine with the familiarity of a thousand kisses from before.
It’s the same dance, even if the dancer is different.
He might be scarred and different, but his love is the same. When his tongue swirls over mine, heat ignites in my core. I moan, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
His breath becomes ragged, quickening as he shifts his weight.
He leans over me, and I feel the intention in his muscles.
He’s preparing to lay me back. So I fall into it, surrendering completely, letting my body sink into the soft mattress as he covers me, his lean frame settling between my legs.
When he presses down, the hard ridge of his erection grinding against my clit through our clothes, I gasp into his mouth, my hips arching instinctively.
Making out with Jude, fully clothed, both of us wild for each other, feels like the first time we ever did this. The frantic, breathless discovery of sex and of wanting so much you can’t even think. We never lost that. Even now, after everything, it’s here, burning brighter than ever.
My fingers tangle in his hair, the dark strands sliding like silk between my knuckles. He makes a sound against my mouth, one that sounds almost like he’s in pain. I whimper.
His response is a roll of his hips, pressing against right where I’m already aching, and my head falls back against the pillow. A sharp sigh breaks from my chest.
I need you. I need you forever.
The thought burns through me like a fever.
His teeth catch my bottom lip. He bites down just hard enough to make me shudder, a sharp possessive claim that sends electricity arcing down my spine.
My hands slide to his jaw, palms flat against the stubble-rough skin, fingertips tracing the sharp blade of his cheekbone.
I feel every motion of his mouth, and the slide of his tongue.
I’m so lost in him that I don’t register his hand moving until his palm is already sliding beneath the waistband of my shorts.
Two fingers sink inside me without hesitation.
We both moan. The sound tangles between our mouths, his breath hot and ragged against my tongue.
His fingers curl inward in a way that strokes a spot so deep I feel it at my very core.
My hips buck up against his hand, chasing the pressure, and he gives it to me.
It's a slow, relentless rhythm, his thumb circling my clit softly.
“Jude.” His name fractures on my tongue.
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his kisses become more desperate, more demanding, his mouth working against mine as his fingers work inside me.
And then he pulls back, just far enough to watch my face.
His gaze is intense, hazel eyes locked right on mine in a way that wasn't even possible days ago. His fingers pump into me, and he watches every reaction. He’s making me come without a single word, just the mastery of his touch and the fire in his stare.
It builds fast. A tightness gathers at the base of my spine, spreading outward.
My thighs tighten around his hand. My back arches off the bed, my body curving toward his.
I’m panting, whimpering, my fingers clutching at his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
He knows how wild he’s making me, and he doesn’t stop.
He watches me unravel in his grasp.
The orgasm crashes over me in a wave of sharp, bright, consuming pleasure.
I cry out, a sound I barely recognize as my own, and my body clenches around his fingers as the release washes through me.
He watches me through all of it, his eyes dark and satisfied, his thumb still circling, drawing every last pulse from me until I’m trembling and oversensitive beneath him.
Then his hands are at the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head.
My shorts follow, and right after, his shirt.
Then his jeans, the button popping open with a flick of his thumb.
The lamplight catches the planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle, ink, and the subtle trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers.
He’s beautiful.
He settles between my thighs, the blankets tangling around us. He kisses me again just as he thrusts inside me in one smooth motion.
I yelp against his lips. The stretch is sudden and full, my body still sensitive from my orgasm, and he’s thick enough that it takes my breath away.
He works deeper with a grunt, the sound strained.
I can feel his arms trembling, and the tension in his shoulders.
He wants to lose control. Wants it violently. But he doesn’t.
His mouth drags from mine to my neck, each kiss open and hot, like he’s trying to remember that he’s here with me and not somewhere else. My mind flickers to the things I know about him. The things he’s done. The blood on his hands that no amount of time can wash clean.
His hips move with a hard, punishing rhythm that forces me deeper into the mattress, the bed creaking quietly beneath us with every impact. My legs lock tighter around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back. I can keep him here. I can keep him sane.
Right?
He nearly growls, the sound vibrating against my throat. He’s holding back so hard his whole body shakes with it, propped on one elbow while his other hand clamps onto my hip. Each thrust hits that devastating point inside me, the one that makes my vision break into a thousand glittering shards.
“You’re n—not a bad person,” I whisper. The words slip out before I can even think about their timing.
Everything stops.
His body goes completely still above me.
His jaw locks so tight I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
For a split second, his grip on my hip tightens.
It’s not painful, but I feel how little it would take for it to become something else.
The same hand that has been covered in blood. The same fingers that have—
His pupils blow wide.
“Emma.” My name is a warning. “You have no idea what I could do to you,” he rasps against my throat, scraping his teeth along my pulse point like a predator. “Life is easier to take than you think. Trust me.”
My breath stutters.
This isn’t a fantasy of violence. It feels like memory. His body still holds mine down, but there’s restraint in every inch of him. I think he might pull away or leave me here, cold and empty and aching in a way that has nothing to do with sex. Instead, something snaps inward.
He crushes his mouth back to mine like if he stops touching me, he’ll come apart. And beneath the heat and hunger of it, I taste something that breaks my heart.
Fear.
Not of me. For me.
“Keep going,” I breathe against his lips.
His forehead presses to mine. His breath is ragged, his eyes squeezed shut like he suddenly can’t bear to look at me.
And when he moves again it feels more dangerous than before.
Not because the violence has left him. Because he’s forcing it into a cage.
Every thrust is controlled and deliberate.
Like he’s proving something to me. To himself.
To whatever darkness lives inside him that he’s trying so desperately not to become.
The pressure builds again with his roughness.
It drags me under like a riptide, pleasure and terror and love all tangled together until I can’t tell them apart.
I break around him, gasping, my body tightening in rhythmic pulses.
He hisses through his teeth, a sound like restraint cracking at its seams, but he doesn’t stop.
His mouth leaves mine just long enough to look at me. Hazel eyes burning into mine.
And for a terrifying, electrifying second, I realize the truth.
He’s not safe because he’s holding his demon back. He’s safe because he’s embracing it and choosing to love me anyway.
His eyes dart between my eyes and my lips, raw lust and darkness warring in his expression.
My fingers tighten on his biceps as I feel them tense beneath my palms. Holding my gaze, he slams into me harder.
Once. Twice. Three times. The last pulses of my orgasm squeeze around him, and he groans as he empties himself inside me.
His body shudders through the aftermath.
We share soft kisses for minutes after. Breathing each other’s air.
Tasting each other’s skin. Then, reluctantly, he pulls out and rolls to his side, tugging me against him.
His arm wraps around my waist, pulling the blankets up over my shoulder, and his lips press to my hair.
“I love you, Em,” he whispers, but there’s a slight tremble in his voice.
My eyes are already growing heavy. My body is a warm, satisfied weight sinking into the mattress. “I love you too, Jude,” I murmur, nuzzling into the hollow of his shoulder.
I’m almost asleep when I feel his arm tighten around me. His breath goes shallow against my neck, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to be the man you deserve anymore.”