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Twenty-three
Cari
When I wake upin the dark, Patrick is wrapped around me—his soft, even breath against the back of my neck. His arm hooked around my waist—holding me the way he did on the rainy morning he tried to show what he wasn’t ready to say.
What I’m still not ready to believe.
Closing my eyes, I think of that morning, the way he felt against me, the beat of his heart drumming in time with mine. I feel it now, and one word pulses through my brain, slow and steady like a heartbeat.
Stay.
Because that’s what I want to do.
I want to stay. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
But I won’t. I can’t.
I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window across from me and watch the sun come up over the harbor, softening the night sky from black to gray. Because I can’t stand the sight of it, I turn in the circle of Patrick’s arm, bringing us face to face. Our mouths a whisper away from touching, I take him in. The firm angle of his jaw. The dark sweep of lashes that hide the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. His perfectly shaped mouth, lips slightly parted... like he knows I’m awake and watching him, his eyes open and look into mine. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. And neither do I.
Eyes open, I lean in, pressing my parted lips against his, my tongue coasting across the lower rim of his mouth. He doesn’t close his eyes either. He watches me like he’s trying to figure out what kind of game I’m playing now.
“You love me.” I say it out loud, barely more than a whisper.
“I love you.” He lifts his hand off my hip and pushes his fingers through my hair, his thumb tracing the curve of my eyebrow as his hand slides down to caress my cheek.
I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to believe him. I’m supposed to say it back.
I’m supposed to stay.
But I can’t. I can’t do any of it so I turn my head to press my lips into the center of his palm and do what I can. “Show me.”
Please.
The word trembles on my lips but I keep it locked away. I don’t want him to do this to please me. I want him to need me, just as much as I need him. I don’t want anger or pity. I want it to feel real.
I want to believe, even if it’s just for a while, that I’m enough.
He hesitates for a moment, and I know what he’s doing. He’s calculating the damage it will do us both to end things this way. He must come to the same conclusion I did—that we both need this, no matter the cost—because he moves, angling himself over me in an instant. I’m suddenly looking up at his perfect face, memorizing every curve and plane. Every slope and angle.
And then I’m falling.
He kisses me slowly, gently licking and nipping at my lower lip with his teeth and tongue. My mouth opens, and he slides in, kissing me until I’m breathless and aching. My skin burning in every place we aren’t touching. I whimper, my hand sliding past the hem of his T-shirt, seeking skin. Needing to touch him. Feel any part of him I can reach.
My fingers skate up the column of his spine, and it snaps tight under the pressure of my hand, his hips flexing against the mattress we’re on as he answers my whimper with a deep-throated groan. My hand traces its way down the length of his back, skirting over the curve of his ass, fingers gripping and pulling him closer, needing to feel him against the heat of me.
Patrick shifts closer and I open my legs, welcoming him into the cradle of my thighs. He stretches over me, hips rocking the length of his rigid cock against the throbbing center of me, again and again until I can’t breathe. Can’t see or feel anything but this.
Him.
Us.
I throw my head back, the base of it digging into the mattress, jaw clenched tight because it’s too much and not enough.
It’s too slow. Too fast.
Patrick’s mouth slides along the curve of my jaw, his hand gentle against my throat before moving lower, caressing the swell of my breast and I arch my back, pushing into his hand, trying to get closer. To keep him with me.
He snags the hem of my shirt and pulls back just enough to take it off, revealing my bra underneath. Arching my back off the bed, I unhook it, and Patrick pulls it down my arms to toss it aside. He cups my breast, his gaze centered on the contrast of his skin against mine, his calloused thumb brushing against my nipple so he can watch it stiffen and swell beneath his touch.