Chapter 5 #2
"Can we just—" She swallows hard. "Can we just not talk? Please? I can't—I can't do this right now."
It's not what I want. Not even close. But I can see how close she is to shattering, and I don't want to be the one who pushes her over the edge.
"Okay," I agree softly. "We don't have to talk."
Relief floods her face. She rises up on her toes, presses her lips to mine. The kiss is desperate, urgent, like she's drowning and I'm air. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer.
I let her lead for a moment, let her take what she needs. Then I slow it down, gentle my response, trying to inject some tenderness into the desperation. My hands slide from her hips to her waist, thumbs stroking slow circles through the hoodie.
She makes a small sound—need or frustration, I can't tell—and deepens the kiss. Her body presses against mine, all curves and heat and barely restrained energy.
"Val," I murmur against her mouth. "Slow down."
"Don't want to slow down," she breathes, already tugging at my shirt, pulling it from my jeans.
"Baby—"
"Please." She looks up at me and there's something raw in her eyes, something desperate. "I need—I need to feel something other than this. Please, Zay."
And fuck, how am I supposed to say no to that?
I spin us, press her back against the counter, and kiss her properly. Deep and thorough and possessive. She responds immediately, wrapping her arms around my neck, body molding to mine.
My hands slide under the hoodie—both hoodies, layers of fabric—finding bare skin underneath. She's so warm, so soft. She gasps into my mouth when my palms skim up her ribs, when my thumbs brush the underside of her breasts.
"Zay," she breathes.
I kiss down her jaw, her neck, finding that spot just below her ear that makes her knees weak. She's making these small sounds, breathy and desperate, that go straight to my cock.
"Tell me what you need," I murmur against her throat.
"You. Just you."
I pull back enough to strip both hoodies over her head, leaving her in just a thin tank top and jeans. Her pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, hair a mess. She's never looked more beautiful or more broken.
"You're sure?" I ask, even though I'm already hard, already wanting her so badly it hurts.
"Yes," she insists, reaching for my belt. "Please. I need—"
I catch her hands, still them. "I need you to be here. With me. Not wherever you've been all week."
"I am here," she protests.
"No, you're not." I bring her hands to my chest, hold them there over my heartbeat. "But I need you to try. Can you try for me?"
She stares at me for a long moment, something like pain flickering across her face. Then she nods. "I'll try."
It's not everything I want, but it's something. It's enough for now.
I kiss her again, slower this time, and she melts into it. My hands map her body—waist, hips, thighs—learning her shape through denim and cotton. She's trembling under my touch, but it's different now. Less panic, more anticipation.
I hook my fingers in her waistband, raise an eyebrow in question. She nods, and I work the button free, slide the zipper down. She kicks off her shoes as I peel the jeans down her legs, taking her underwear with them.
"Fuck," I breathe, taking in the sight of her. "You're so beautiful."
She reaches for me, but I catch her hands again, press them back against the counter. "Let me," I murmur. "Let me take care of you."
I drop to my knees on the kitchen floor and she makes a strangled sound. "Zay, you don't have to—"
"I want to," I interrupt, looking up at her. "I want to taste you. Make you feel good. Unless you don't want that?"
"I—" She swallows hard. "I want that."
"Then hold on."
I hook one of her legs over my shoulder, opening her up. She's already wet, already ready, and the sight makes my cock throb. I lean in, drag my tongue through her folds, and she cries out, hand flying to my hair.
"Shh," I murmur against her. "Xavier's sleeping."
"I don't—oh God—" Her words dissolve into a moan as I find her clit, circle it with my tongue.
I work her slowly, thoroughly, paying attention to what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck. Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling just this side of painful. Her thighs are trembling, trying to close around my head.
"So good," I tell her between strokes. "You taste so fucking good, baby."
She's close—I can feel it in the way her muscles tense, the way her breathing goes ragged. I slide two fingers inside her, curl them just right, and suck her clit.
She comes with a muffled cry, hand pressed over her mouth to stay quiet. I work her through it, gentle now, until she's pushing at my shoulder with her free hand.
"Too much," she gasps.
I press one last kiss to her inner thigh, then stand. She's flushed, panting, gorgeous. I pull her into a kiss and she can taste herself on my tongue.
"That was—" She stops, swallows. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," I murmur, already working my belt free. "We're not done."
I free my cock and she reaches for it immediately, wraps her hand around me. I hiss at the contact, at the sight of her small hand stroking me.
"I want," she confirms. "Please."
I lift her onto the counter, step between her spread thighs. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulls me closer. I line myself up, pause at her entrance.
"Look at me," I command softly. "I need you here, Val. With me."
She meets my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—the walls come down. I see her, really see her, and what I see terrifies me. So much pain. So much guilt. So much fear.
Then she's kissing me and I'm sliding inside her, slow and deep, and we both groan at the sensation.
"Fuck," I breathe against her mouth. "You feel—"
"Don't stop," she gasps, rolling her hips. "Please don't stop."
I set a rhythm—slow, deep, thorough. Each thrust deliberate, purposeful. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her breath hot against my neck. I can feel her climbing again already, can feel her tightening around me.
"That's it," I murmur in her ear. "Let go. I've got you."
"Zay—" My name is a prayer, a plea.
I slide one hand between us, find her clit, circle it in time with my thrusts. She's close, so close, trembling and gasping and so beautiful it hurts to look at her.
"Be honest with me," I whisper against her temple, still moving, still driving into her. "Let me in. Let me help you."
She stiffens slightly, and I feel it—that wall slamming back into place. Even as her body responds, even as she's moments from coming, her mind retreats somewhere I can't follow.
"I—" She can't finish. Won't finish.
I kiss her anyway, pour everything I'm feeling into it—want and need and worry and something deeper I'm not ready to name. She responds desperately, like she's trying to tell me something she can't say out loud.
We come together, a tangle of gasps and moans and muffled cries. Her pussy clenches around me, pulling me deeper, and I bury my face in her neck to muffle my own sounds.
For a few moments, we just breathe together, foreheads pressed together, hearts racing.
Then she leans in to kiss me—soft, tender, almost apologetic.
I pull back.
She blinks, confused. Hurt. "Zay?"
"I can feel it," I tell her quietly, not letting go but creating space between us. "That wall you've built. Even now, even after this, you're still hiding from me."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." I cup her face in my hands, make her look at me. "And I don't know how to help you if you won't let me in. If you won't be honest with me."
Tears well up in her eyes. "I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both," she whispers. "I can't—if I tell you—you'll—"
"What?" I press. "I'll what? Leave you? Stop caring? Val, that's not possible. Don't you know that by now?"
She shakes her head, tears spilling over. "You don't understand."
"Then make me understand."
We stare at each other, at an impasse. She looks like she wants to tell me—God, she looks like she's desperate to tell me—but something holds her back. Some fear or shame or guilt I can't see.
Finally, she looks away. "I should finish the soup. Xavier will be hungry when he wakes up."
It's a dismissal. A retreat. And it hurts more than I expected.
I help her down from the counter, hand her clothes back without comment. We dress in silence—awkward, painful silence that feels wrong after what we just shared.
"Val—"
"Please," she interrupts, not looking at me. "Just—please. I need to finish the soup."
I want to push. Want to demand answers. Want to break through whatever wall she's built and drag the truth out of her.
But I can see how close she is to breaking completely, and I don't want to be the one who destroys her.
So I nod. "Okay. I'll be in the living room if you need anything."
She doesn't respond, just turns back to the vegetables and picks up the knife with shaking hands.
I leave her there, alone with whatever demons she's carrying, and wonder how long either of us can keep doing this.
How long before the weight of her secrets crushes us both.