“You were never an arra—”
“Let’s call a spade a spade.” I arch my eyebrows at him, trying to summon the fire that coursed through my veins moments before that has since been replaced with desolation. “You have an uncanny way of putting me in my place any time I overstep one of your asinine boundaries.”
We stare at each other, unspoken words on our lips, and he is the first to look away and break our connection. He shrugs out of his dinner jacket, and wraps it around my shoulders, ever the consummate gentleman even in the midst of turmoil, but where his fingers would normally linger on my skin, he recoils instantly.
“I never meant to hurt you, Rylee.” His voice cracks with a quiet vulnerability I’ve never heard before. I’d never expect from him. He lowers his head, shaking it subtly, and mutters fuck under his breath. Déjà vu hits me from the night in the hotel room, and all the air punches from my lungs. “I don’t want to hurt you any further.”
This is it.
He’s going to end it right here, right now. Doing what I can’t for the life of me do myself. I press the heel of my hand to my chest, trying to press away the ache that sears through me. He runs his hands through his hair, and I tremble in anticipation, waiting for him to continue but hoping he doesn’t. He lifts his head and reluctantly meets my eyes. He is stripped bare—haunted, desolate—the emotion so transparent in his eyes it’s hard to hold his gaze.
And in this moment, it hits me. I realize that I’ve been chastising him for not fighting for me, but has anyone ever really fought for him besides his parents? Not for his material possessions or his notoriety, but for the little boy he was and for the man he is now? For the years of abuse and neglect I’m sure he endured. Has anyone ever told him they love him not despite it but rather because of it? And that all of those experiences combined have in fact made him a better person. A better man. That they accept all of him regardless—every maddening, confusing, heartwarming, piece of him.
I bet no one has.
And as much as I’m hurting and want to lash out at him in return, a part of me wants to leave him with something no one else has ever given him. Something to remember me by.
“For you, Colton…” My voice may be soft when I speak, a resignation to our fate, but my honesty comes through loud and clear. “…I’d take the chance.” I can visibly see his body stiffen at my admission. His lips part slightly and the tension leaves his jaw, as if he is shocked that I’d be willing to take the chance on him. That I believe he’s worth the risk.
He takes a step toward me and reaches a hand out tentatively to frame my jaw. He stares into my eyes with an unfettered intensity, his lips opening several times to say something but closing without a sound. I inhale a sharp breath at the resonance of his touch as he rubs the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip—the roughness of his calloused fingers against the softness of my lips. A horrible sadness takes hold when I realize rough and soft is in a way a lot like us.
“For you, Rylee,” he whispers, his voice breaking. His usually steady hands tremble ever so slightly against my cheeks, and I swear I can see fear flicker through his eyes before he blinks away the moisture that pools in them. “I will try.”
He will try? My mind has to switch gears so quickly that I’m left disoriented. Talk about going from an unbelievable low to an unexpected high. “You’ll try?” my broken voice asks, not believing my ears.
Just a trace of the crooked, roguish smile that I find irresistible curves up one side of his mouth, but I can hear the trepidation in his tone. “Yes,” he repeats. His eyes burn into mine until my eyes flutter closed as he leans in and gives me the gentlest, most reverent kiss I’ve ever received. He then kisses the tip of my nose before resting his forehead against mine. His breath whispers against my lips, and his heart pounds a frantic tattoo against my chest all the while my insides are leaping for joy, bubbling over with hope.
Holy shit! Colton is going to try. He is going to fight for us. For me. For him. There is so much unspoken beneath his declaration. So much promise, fear, vulnerability, and willingness to overcome whatever plagues his dreams at night and incessantly haunts his memories—just to try and be with me.
He dips his head down and kisses me again. A slow, soft brush of lips and dance of tongues that is so packed with unspoken words it causes tears to well in my eyes. He finishes by kissing my nose again and then pulling me into him in a crushing embrace. I sigh, welcoming his warmth, his strength, and enjoying how the long, lean line of his body fits perfectly against my curves. I drink in his scent and the sound of his heart beating beneath my ear. He leans his face down, his cheek rubbing against my temple, as he emits a sigh that sounds similar to a muttered oath. And I swear it sounds like he mutters something about a voodoo pussy, but when I snap my head up to look at him, he just shakes head and smirks.
“What am I going to do with you, Rylee?” He holds me tighter, chills dancing up my spine. “What am I going to do?” He sighs again and I suppress a smothered chuckle as I wriggle against him. The mixture of his body on mine, the relief in knowing he is going to try, and the anticipated buildup of the evening has me more than desperate for just a platonic hug in a garden.
How can such a simple statement leave me breathless with anticipation and desperate for his touch—emotionally and physically? He trails a finger down the line of my neck before dipping it down into the bodice and then descending the long torturous path downward, parting the draped slit of my dress to my hypersensitive sex. His deft fingers find me weeping and wanting, and when he touches me I swear I’m ready to splinter into a million pieces of pleasure. I gasp a strangled moan from its effect.