Chapter 22 #2
His jaw ticks, but he nods. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that,” he says. “He shouldn’t have been able to get to you… to touch you… to violate you like that… I should’ve?—”
Oh, Gruene.
“Stop.” Reaching out, I touch his cheek. “You heard me scream and you came. You didn’t hesitate. You did everything right.”
He turns toward me, his eyes full of something I’ve never seen in a man before—not like this— Something broken and brave all at once —“I meant it,” he says. “What I said... I love you”
I nod. “I know.” He shudders and I lean in.
“Gruene, I know. I love you. But it’s done.
He didn’t get what he wanted from me. He didn’t get to finish what he came to do…
because you stopped him. There’s no point in thinking about what could have happened.
It didn’t.” I take his hand and press it to my cheek. “See. I’m here. I’m okay.”
“I don’t want to lose this.” He murmurs. “I can’t…” All of his fear and frustration, his misplaced guilt, is evident in his voice.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going to lose this… lose me.” I whisper.
He stares at me for a long beat before leaning in and pressing his forehead to mine.
“Then let’s not waste any more time.” He groans.
Just like that, something shifts. We’re not tiptoeing anymore. We’re falling.
Together.
The air thickens, pulling tight around us with everything unspoken but fully felt.
Gruene doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t drag me across the room or tear at my clothes like this is some hurried rush to get off. He watches me, carefully, reverently.
His green eyes soak up every breath I take… every tiny shift in my body, like he’s memorizing me again—now with nothing between us but the ache of everything we’ve confessed.
“I meant it,” he says, voice deep and rough. “Every word I told you.”
My throat feels too full to answer out loud, so I nod. Step closer. Let my fingers find the hem of his shirt. “I know,” I whisper. “That’s why I’m still here.” I lift.
His exhale is sharp, unsteady as though he’s holding back a thousand things he doesn’t know how to say, but he says one thing, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I don’t want words now. I want to feel him.
I press my palm to his chest, his bare skin hot and solid beneath my touch—and guide him backward toward. He stops me, “Are you sure? He touched you… I don’t want to… if you’re not ready…”
I am. I don’t want Tyler to take this away from me.
In answer, I remove my shirt and drop it to the floor. My panties follow. I’m naked as I stare down at him, “He doesn’t get to ruin this. I want you to touch me, Gruene.”
He lies back… like he’d follow me off a cliff.
I think we’re both hoping this is where we finally land.
He stops, grabbing my hand. He holds it between us and looks up at me. “Tell me you want this, Blakelyn. Are you certain?”
Meeting his gaze, I hold it and say, “I want you, Gruene.” My voice is low and certain.
“I want you to touch me. I want you to kiss me. I want you inside of me. I want all of you. I want to touch you. Every scar. Every shadow. Every piece of you that’s terrified to love me back.
I want it all. I love you and I’m beyond certain. ”
He breaks… or maybe he mends. Either way—he moves.
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that burns hotter than any we've shared before. It’s not desperate or angry. It’s deliberate. Hungry , intentional… as though he’s trying to brand every part of me with his need… with his love.
His hands are everywhere—delicately skimming down my sides, careful of the marks still there. He pauses, his eyes raking over me like he’s seeing more than just skin. “Fuck, Blakelyn,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”
Reaching for his shirt, I drag it up. My hands skate over the curve of his ribs, the tight planes of his stomach, the hard lines of muscle and ridges of scars that flex beneath my touch. He unsnaps and pulls off his jeans. His boxers join them on the floor.
The second we’re skin to skin, we both still, breathing. There’s no one else here. No pain. No past. Just us.
His hand brushes over the soft curve of my stomach. His touch is whisper soft, like he’s trying not to break me but I’m not breakable anymore.
Not with him.
My palms flatten on his chest before I drag them down.
He stops me before I can stroke him, leaning back just enough to look at me.
Pulling me onto the bed, he rolls us. i’m underneath him.
Kissing my stomach first, he moves to my hip.
Right on the fading bruise. His fingers splay on it, touching it like spun glass.
He moves to the other hip and presses a kiss there too.
Then, he kisses just above my mound. My breath rushes out as his breath coasts over my clit. “Gruene…”
“I need a taste, baby.” His hands grip my hips as his mouth finds me—slow and reverent. I gasp, “Oh—ohhhhhhh…” His tongue drags over me like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever fed him.
My fingers thread into his hair, anchoring myself to something real as he licks, sucks, nibbles, and groans into me. His teeth and tongue work in tandem, building the wave as I grind into his face. When I come, it’s not quiet.
It’s a cry torn from somewhere deep and trembling.
“Gruene… oh shit… oh, baby… Ohhhhhhh… I love you. God, I love you.” He holds me through all of it—his mouth still moving, his tongue still stimulating me, drawing every last tremor from my body until I’m slumping against the mattress, boneless and breathless.
He stands, his eyes dark. His jaw tight. His cock is hard, flushed, and leaking at the tip. I reach for him without hesitation.
“I need to be inside you, Blakelyn,” he growls against my neck.
“Then, take me, Gruene,” I breathe. “I’m yours.”
His breath shudders against my skin and then, he lifts me onto his lap—my legs wrap around his waist, my chest presses to his—he guides himself inside with one slow, deep thrust that makes us both moan.
We hold there, pressed tightly together, connected in the most intimate way.
He groans as I start to move. “Yes, baby. You’re in control…”
He gave me this. Even though I said I wanted him, he’s giving me control…
God, I love him.
I ride him. It’s not frantic. It’s not performative. It’s fucking intimate.
I slide him out to the tip before slowly sinking back down on him until his balls touch my ass. I move slowly, deeply. Every glide is a claim. He doesn’t thrust into me. His hands are on my hips. He’s just letting me take what I need.
He doesn’t stop kissing me—my mouth, my throat, the hollow between my breasts—as his hands roam over every inch of me like he’s trying to remember me with touch alone.
I kiss him back just as fiercely and when I say, “I love you,” this time—it’s not an echo. It’s an anchor.
His breathing stutters. He groans, burying his face in my neck. “Say it again.” His hips start to move as though he can’t remain still any longer. He thrusts up as I bear down.
I say, “I love you.”
“God, Blakelyn—” He swallows, his hips picking up the pace. The sound of our bodies meeting is wet and hot and so damn real.
Tension winds in my belly again—tight and urgent—and I hold onto him, gripping his shoulders as I grind down, hitting just the right spot with every movement, I moan again, “Mmmmmm, I’m close.”
“Me, too.” He grunts. It ends on a growl that sounds like pure sin. He thrusts one more time—hard and deep—and I come apart around him, pulsing and crying out as he follows, spilling inside me with a guttural moan. “Oh, baby. I love you, Blakelyn.”
We stay like that. Breathing. Shaking. Clinging.
No longer two broken pieces colliding but something more.
Something whole.