Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Morgan
I'm so fucking mixed up right now, like holy hell.
I'm so turned on it hurts. Dumbass me butt-FaceTimed Noah Austin at five-thirty in the damn morning, and then when he called me back almost immediately like the gentleman he is, I answered…
naked. I mean, yeah, sure, I didn't realize it was a FaceTime—I was in the middle of a catastrophe. My leg was scalded, my cream-colored suede couch was stained to shit by coffee, which I hadn’t even gotten to drink yet.
So yeah, it didn't register that the ring was different.
I wasn't looking at the screen when I answered—or, well, I guess I did.
It just didn't fucking register that it was a video call, okay?
So yes, it's my own dumbass fault Noah Austin saw my itty bitty titties.
He seems to like what he saw, though. Especially considering the, uhhh, prominence of the evidence. It was clearly outlined behind his underwear, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. It is also now very clearly outlined in my mind.
Imprinted, you might say. Seared.
I can't remember what it feels like to touch one.
To be caressed.
Held.
Loved.
But then, if I picture actually standing in my bedroom with Noah as he undresses me, I feel a shivering recoil of nauseated embarrassment, mainly because when I consider being nude with a man, all I hear is Kevin's voice the last time we had sex.
You're so beautiful, Morgan, and here, my heart had risen, hopeful and briefly validated. You'd be so much hotter if you got implants.
Yes, that's verbatim.
But he wasn't done.
Implants and a tummy tuck.
For reference, he was referring to the part of my body where my FUCKING ORGANS are: meaning my lower belly, which, like a lot of women, protrudes a little bit.
It always has, even when I was an elite athlete; even with body fat low enough to have visible abs, that part of me has always just stuck out a little bit.
Because again—that’s where my fucking body parts go…
y’know, my uterus? That was seventeen years ago, when I was only thirty-one and not that far removed from being in Olympic athlete shape.
Nowadays?
I have an actual pooch or whatever you want to call it.
Wrinkly skin from carrying Mallory—I clearly didn't apply enough shea butter.
Cellulite and stretch marks on my hips and thighs because I gained a good bit of weight during and after the pregnancy, and I didn't have time to do anything about it until she started kindergarten.
My boobs have stayed roughly the same, fortunately—Mal had a sensitive stomach and could only tolerate formula, so I never had the enlargement and shrinkage that comes with breastfeeding.
Which means my boobs are still pretty high and tight, which is nice.
I'd have preferred to breastfeed, if I'm honest. I always felt a little cheated out of what seemed like an important part of motherhood.
Silver linings, though, right?
I don't always hear Kevin's actual words anymore. Mostly, I just hear his voice, but the words are all my own inner critic, fueled by Kevin's obvious distaste for me. That wasn't a one-off criticism, though. It was a million endless things like that.
Pointing out chin hairs, wrinkles, and blemishes.
Repeatedly offering to buy me new boobs.
Blatantly ogling any woman in his vicinity with big tits, despite my presence at his side.
Telling me I should work on my squat game to grow my butt.
Buying me a box of hair dye because he spotted a silver hair. At 31, yes.
I wonder why, huh, KEVIN?
Constant comments like that add up. He didn't outright tell me I was too skinny or that my tits were small in so many words…usually.
It was mostly just implied.
Repeatedly.
In a variety of ways.
For years.
It adds up. The criticism shifts from his words to my own, but I still hear his voice pointing out my many flaws, sapping my confidence in myself, zapping any notion of feeling sexy or beautiful or desirable.
"Morgan?" Noah's voice snaps me back to the present, and I realize I've been blindly following him into the woods, walking on autopilot as my mind goes into Super Overthinker Mode ?.
I stop walking, close my eyes, and focus on my breathing, trying to banish the voices. "Sorry, I'm just in my head."
I feel him take my hand and press something small, round, and cold into my palm. I open my eyes and see a quarter face up in my hand. "Your thoughts are worth more than a penny."
I snicker. "Nice line," I say, grinning at him.
"I thought so," he says, playfully brushing imaginary dust off one shoulder. "But for real. I'd love to know what's got you in your head."
I groan. "No, you really wouldn’t. It's not a happy place, sometimes." I start walking again. "And we're having a nice time together. If I shared my thoughts, it'd turn all shitty and I want to have fun."
We walk in silence for a while, and I wonder if he heard me, if he has a response to that at all.
I should know better.
We reach a fork in the trail; there's a trail marker, a sign explaining which way to go for a longer or shorter hike, and a bench in case you need to sit and decide.
Noah sits on the bench and stretches his long legs out.
"Tired already?" I quip. "Thought you were working on your conditioning for the game."
"You don't owe me anything, obviously, but I'd still like to know what had you in your head like that, Morgan.
We agreed we wouldn't play games. Pretending you're fine if you're not is suspiciously game-like, if you ask me.
" He takes my hand, threads our fingers together.
"We've both been through a lot. Some conversations are gonna be heavy.
That's okay. We can have fun and deal with the heavy shit.
Can't have one without the other—that's just life. "
"I have insecurities."
He snorts. "Welcome to being a person. We all do."
"Yes, but mine come in the form of all the shitty, critical things my ex used to say to me about my body. Bonus points because I hear them in his voice."
"Saying what?"
I duck my head, roll a shoulder. “My boobs are too small. My ass is too flat. No one wants to sleep with a woman with a belly. I'm wrinkly. I've got stretch marks. Cellulite. Gray hairs. My legs are so disproportionately long that I look like a horse." I snort. "That last one is a direct quote."
"As in your husband said it to you, out loud?" He sounds equal parts shocked and horrified.
I nod. “He did."
"And he's still alive?"
"He had a knack for saying stuff like that in a situation where I couldn't rip him a new one without creating a scene, which I'm violently allergic to. My mom used to have very public breakdowns in, like, the supermarket or whatever."
"Fucking evil."
"He was an asshole. But he kept the true scope of his assholery hidden until it was too late.
Sort of like slowly turning the heat up to cook a lobster.
The TBI changed him, though, so I can't really say if he was always an asshole, if the TBI turned him into an asshole, or if it just brought out more of the asshole that was already there. "
"Doesn't matter. There's no excuse for vile bullshit like that."
I flip the quarter off my thumb and catch it, watching it glint in the sunlight. "I don't disagree."
The next time I flip the quarter, his big, rough hand flashes out and catches it before I can; as intended, the move draws my eyes to his.
"Your ex was clearly a feckless goon who didn't deserve a single second of your attention.
" His palm brushes my cheek, and my heart hammers at the soft contact. "He was dead wrong about everything."
I smile. "I appreciate that, Noah. Thank you."
"Doesn't silence the voice, though, huh?"
I shake my head. "I wish it was that simple. Truly I do."
He angles his body toward mine and shifts closer. "I may not be able to silence that voice for you, Morgan, but maybe I can add a new one that'll hopefully counteract all the lies he fed you."
Throat tight, I search his face and see only honesty, genuine care, and frank appreciation. "What would the voice say, Noah?" My words are a whisper, barely audible.
He touches my jaw with his fingertips, a delicate, tender touch that prevents me from looking away from his hypnotic dark blue eyes.
"I would say—sorry, the voice would say—that you're fucking gorgeous, Morgan Wheeler.
" His gaze turns downright fierce. "The voice would tell you that you're absolutely perfect, exactly the way you are. That you're breathtaking."
I shake my head. "Noah, I—"
"Wasn't done, sweetheart."
"Okay," I breathe. "What else?"
His thumb slides over my lips. "You have the most kissable lips."
"I do?"
"Yup." His face grows closer, and then his mouth is on mine, and my eyes are closing, and my heart is pounding as he kisses me—softly, with exquisite gentility, so slowly, so tenderly. He pulls away far too soon. "See? Kissable."
"Noah—"
“Still not done."
" 'Kay."
He cups my chin and tilts my head back, and his lips touch my throat, the hollow at the base, skidding down to my chest. "Every part of you I've seen so far is so fucking kissable." His kisses pause where my cleavage begins, and his eyes flick up to mine.
Tacitly making sure I'm okay.
I cup the back of his neck and tip my head back, fingers toying with his hair, giving him permission to keep going.
I'm panicking but curious—my heart is crashing and cracking in my chest, breaking as his words collide with the decades-old litany of criticisms I've had on repeat in my brain.
But yet, I can't bring myself to stop him.
His words break yet soothe. They rip open scabs and scars, yet provide a balm for the very hurts they cause—not cause… reveal. Highlight.
"Noah…" I gasp.