Authors: Maisey Yates
She might know more of his secrets than anyone else did, but she didn't know all of them. She never would.
That thought made her unaccountably sad. She shouldn't care whether or not she knew all of his secrets. Whether or not they had infinite time together or severely limited time. It was never about the two of them. It was about purging all of the ugliness inside of them both. Finding a safe place for it to land. So it didn't have to live inside of them, poisoning them, trapping them.
She gritted her teeth, straightening her shoulders and staring him down. “I don't see any point in hiding this anymore,” she said.
He pushed up from the floor, moving into a standing position, keeping a healthy space between them. His breathing was harsh, hard, his teeth clenched together. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he continued his distant visual perusal of her body.
He moved to her slowly, not saying anything, and then he dropped to his knees again, right in front of her. He put his hand on her stomach, tracing along the line left by the accident, or subsequent surgeries. They were a part of her she couldn't escape. A part she took on with grim acceptance.
But when he touched her, she saw something different. She saw his regret, his shame. And when she saw it in his eyes, she could see how unfair it was to have such a limited perspective. To look at her own body and hate it the way that she did.
Yes, the accident had changed her. It had changed them. But just as she had said to Jonathan, they were both more than this one mistake. Than this one moment in time.
All of the pain, all of the fear, all of the shame was tied to a day that was well behind them now. It seemed like such a shame, such a waste, to sacrifice every year that came after it on the altar of that one day. That one moment.
It was impossible not to be changed by it. But it was tragic to be destroyed by it.
She reached down, moving her thumb along the edge of his jaw, tracing that square line to the center of his chin. Then, she tilted his face upward.
The stark, raw regret in his eyes almost made her want to turn away. To let them both hide in the dark. It was easier. It let them both hold their pain close while they sought pleasure in each other's bodies. This forced them to open the vein, share it. It wasn't only her being exposed by this. Not only her scars, but his.
It cost her deeply to admit that. To acknowledge that he had been hurt by this too. That his mistakes had caused him pain. She had wanted to claim every last bit of it. Had wanted to make it all about her. Had wanted so badly for him to be a one-dimensional villain.
But now she just saw them for what they were. Two people who were wounded. Who had been wounded long before her car had hit that tree.
He wrapped his arms around her, his hands pressed against her lower back. He turned his face into her, his stubble-roughened cheek scraping against the tender skin on her stomach. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him there, holding them both together for just a moment.
She wanted to hold on to him forever. This man, this man whom she had long believed to be the source of all of her pain. This man who wasâin this momentâthe source of all of her comfort. Right now, everything outside of this room seemed completely uncertain. But there was this. There was him.
They stayed like that for a long moment, their ragged breathing the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
He was the first one to move, unsnapping the button on her jeans, drawing the zipper down slowly.
She closed her eyes while he undressed her, the shifting fabric against her skin sending little jolts of electricity through her. It felt amazing. Like it always did when they were together. Like it always did when he touched her. But there was something more to this too. Something deeper. That terrified her. But not enough to stop.
He placed his hands on her bare hips, then let his fingertips drift down her legs, back to her thigh, then back up to the part of her midsection where she had been left most scarred from the skin graft.
He closed his eyes, leaning in, his face against the ruined skin something she found she couldn't feel. Her throat tightened, tears blurring her vision. She kept on watching him, even as the first tear fell, then the second. When he moved away from the scar, she could feel the heat from his mouth, the pressure of his lips.
Then they drifted back to the very worst scar, and she lost the sensation again. She took a deep breath, one that turned into a sob.
He stopped, looking back up at her, concern lighting his blue eyes.
“I can't feel that,” she said, her throat so tight she could hardly force the words through it.
He released his hold on her, clenching his hands into fists, pressing them down against the hard floor, the muscles in his shoulders and arms tight. He lowered his head for a second, then raised it back up.
“I'm so sorry,” he said. “I'm so sorry for everything that I took from you.”
For the second time that day, she felt her knees give way. It was her turn to join him down on the floor. He pulled her over onto his lap, holding her naked body up against his clothed one.
She couldn't tell him that it was okay. That she didn't need the apology. That he didn't have to say it. Because she
did
need it. She let it wash over her like a wave. But when it ended, nothing had changed. The scars were still there. And so was his tattoo.
She reached down, pressing one fingertip down against the dark ink on his forearm. She stared at the mark while she moved her fingertips over it, following the line around his entire arm.
“I'm sorry that you were my lesson,” he said. “It's not fair. Not a damn thing about it is fair.”
She looked up at him, her eyes never leaving his.
“Well, my scars and your tattoo aren't going anywhere, are they?” She pressed her palm over the mark on his skin. “All the regret, all the blame, all the anger and all the apologies in the world won't make them go away.”
“I chose to put the tattoo on.”
“And I chose to let my scars define me. We make choices. Sometimes we make choices that just make us miserable.”
“I don't deserve for you to sit here and try to make me feel better.” He lowered his head, kissing her shoulder. “I don't deserve any of this. I don't deserve to touch you.”
“But I want you to.”
He grabbed hold of the back of her head, pulling her face down and kissing her intensely. She shifted, parting her thighs so that his denim-covered arousal was pressed tightly against her aroused flesh. Even with all of this, all of the pain, all of the difficult truth between them, she wanted him.
“It doesn't make a damn bit of sense, baby,” he said, pulling away for a second, more questions than answers in his dark eyes.
“Sometimes I think I don't make any sense. That everything inside me is just too messed up. Maybe I need a guy who's just as messed up as I am to finally help me put things in order.”
He growled, wrapping one arm around her waist and reversing their position so that she was lying down on the floor, her body cushioned by a small, braided rug. He took his clothes off quickly, giving her a perfect view of his incredible body.
Impossibly, she felt a smile curve her lips.
“What?” he asked.
“I remember the first time I saw you without a shirt. I thought it wasn't fair. How perfect your skin was. Now, I kinda think maybe it's fair enough. You being so beautiful for me. And me...”
He took hold of one wrist, then another, drawing her arms up over her head and pinning them to the floor. “I want you,” he said, his voice rough. “Don't you dare try to tell me that you're what I deserve because you aren't beautiful.” He swallowed hard. “I don't know how I can say the scars are beautiful. Not when I put them there.”
“You didn't. A tree did.” Her throat burned, another piece of her carefully cultivated armor falling away. “It was an accident, Gage. Even if you did something wrong, you didn't mean to hurt me.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Yes, it does. Because if you had taken your hands and put them on me and hurt me on purpose, then we wouldn't be here now. There would be no coming back from that.” She pulled against his hold, firm, but not uncomfortable on her wrists. “But look at us now. I trust you to do this. What you mean to do matters. It changes it. It changed what's possible for the future. You didn't intend to hurt me. It was an accident.”
Saying it, believing it, was just another challenge for her. It stole more of her anger, more of that righteous fury that she had chosen to direct at him for so long.
She had said so many times that she couldn't absolve him. That it wasn't her job. That it wouldn't change anything or fix anything.
But just then, something broke loose inside of her, and she realized that it would change everything. That she had to do it. Until she did, she was still holding on to the anger, she was still blaming him. Still punishing him.
“I forgive you,” she whispered.
She felt his body shudder against hers, and he released his hold on her wrists, grabbing hold of her face, sliding his thumbs over her cheekbones, over the tears that were falling there on her face, tears she had barely been aware she had shed. And then, he kissed her. It was more than a kiss. He was consuming her. As though he were bent on taking every ounce of absolution from her lips, from her very soul.
Like a man possessed he kissed her, his tongue thrusting deep, his muscles trembling. And when he finished, they were both shaking. Then, he moved away from her, going for his discarded pants, grabbing his wallet out of the back pocket and taking a condom out of it.
“I need you,” he said, his every word tortured.
In that moment, she wanted to be there for him. Wanted this to be something that healed them both. For the first time, she really did care about what this did for him.
She didn't know if it would heal them. Or if it would break them. Maybe it would do both. Maybe both needed to happen. The thought didn't really make sense, but her thoughts were muddled, by emotion, by desire. She supposed it didn't matter either way.
She wasn't turning him away, regardless.
He came down over her, between her spread thighs, kissing her again before he pressed his fingertips against her collarbone, drawing them down over her breast, over the tightened, sensitized nipple there. He pinched her gently before continuing. His fingers skimming over a web of scars on her stomach before moving to her thigh. He gripped her tight, pulling her up into a sitting position, then he lifted them both from the ground, taking them to the armchair that was by the fire. He sat down, bringing her down over him, so that she was straddling him, the damp entrance of her body open to the thick, blunt tip of his cock.
He flexed his hips, teasing them both with near penetration. She held on to his shoulders, boldly meeting his gaze as he slipped inside her about an inch, then pulled out again, the ridge on the head his arousal creating a slick, delicious friction inside of her.
“Gage,” she gasped. “I need you.”
* * *
I
T
WAS
THE
simple admission that did him in. Utterly, completely. That simple, perfect admission of need. It was when he lost his control. When he couldn't hold himself back any longer.
Gage flexed his hips, pushing his cock deep inside of her, gritting his teeth, trying to keep himself in check as her tight warmth closed around him.
She slid her hands down his chest, that wonderful, unpracticed touch testing his resolve in a way he couldn't have taught her. He didn't want it to end like this. Didn't want it to end too fast. He owed her better than that.
He grabbed hold of her wrists again, this time pinning her arms behind her back with one of his hands, taking the other and gripping her chin with his thumb and forefinger, drawing her down for a kiss while he pushed up deeper inside of her.
He swallowed the raw sound that rose up in her throat as he pushed himself in and out of her, still holding her fast, holding her captive.
He released his hold on her chin, moving his hand down to cup her breast, teasing her tight nipple with his thumb until the color deepened, until she was gasping for more. Until she claimed his mouth with her own, kissing him as he continued to move inside of her, kept on teasing her aroused body.
She struggled against his hold, and he held on to her more tightly. “Let me,” he said, skimming his lips over her cheek, along the line of her jaw and down her neck, sliding his tongue over her collarbone. “Let me,” he repeated.
He fastened his lips over the center of her breast, sucking her in deep. Then, he released his hold on her wrists, grabbing hold of her hips, strengthening the force of his thrusts, pulling her down against him as he moved up, increasing the friction, increasing the intensity in each clash of their bodies.
He was lost in this, in this moment, watching her dark eyes glaze with pleasure every time he came into contact with her sweet clit, every time he went deep. And when she finally came, as her internal muscles tightened around him, her release coming from deep inside of her, he watched her face. Watched her expression as she gave herself up to pleasure.
It felt like absolution for his soul. It felt like every bit of forgiveness he had ever needed.
He surrendered himself to it. Let all of his defenses drop. He had no control here, no more to offer her. All he could do was take. Take each and every bit of that redemption that was on offer. Like it was his last breath, his last chance. Like it was the only thing that could ever save him.
He gave it all up. Gave himself up in a release that was enough to shatter his bones.
He grabbed hold of her hair, tugging her head backward, pressing his lips to her throat, holding her like that until the storm in him subsided.
When it passed, he picked her up, laying them both down across the couch, resting his head on her stomach. Her arms came up around him, holding him against her, her fingers laced through his hair.