Page 85 of Don't Say You're Sorry

And finally, the heartache—the kind that’s lived in me since the day I watched him walk away.

For three and a half years, that was my last memory of him. And it fucking hurt.

Still does.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t outrun that kind of pain.

I’m usually alone when this happens. This time, I’m holding the very person who broke me, the person who made me like this, and he’s holding me right back.

And I don’t hate it.

We don’t fall asleep. He doesn’t dare say a word; the only reason I know he’s still awake is because he’s rubbing my back, his grip firm as if he’s trying to anchor me.

It’s working, but I don’t tell him that.

When I notice the sun rising through the window, I ask, “Are you hungry?”

He lifts his face to look at me. “Yes.”

“Good. Come with me.” I take his hand and lead him into my bathroom.

Much like he did the first time he was in here, he watches me as I turn the water on, wait for it to heat up, and step into the shower. He stays near the sink, waiting for permission to join me. I let him sweat for a few minutes while I wash my hair, putting on a little show for him.

His nails dig into his palms as his eyes drag over my body.

I smile to myself. “Wanna play a game?”

He huffs and looks down at himself. His dick is already hard.

“You win,” he says.

“Yeah, I do,” I agree, staring at him.

He stands up a little straighter.

“Come here.”

He steps in with me, and I grab his waist, pulling his chest to mine. I turn him and guide him beneath the showerhead, and he moans as the hot water cascades over his skin.

I wash his hair for him, then his body, taking my time as I run the washcloth over the marks on him. There are several of them—bite marks, finger marks, scratches—and they’re all over him. His neck, his chest, his abs, his hips, his back, his ass. All covered in my marks. I fucking preen at the sight. He’s never looked more beautiful.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks, amused.

I nod. He chews on his bottom lip, his gaze moving from my face to my neck and back up again. I raise a brow. He doesn’t move.Chickenshit.

“Do it,” I say.

He steps into me and wraps his fingers around the back of my neck, pulling my throat to his mouth. My eyes flutter shut as he sinks his teeth in. He sucks hard, and I groan quietly, my fingers curling around his hips. He pulls back to look at the mark, his eyes blazing with heat as he kisses his way down my chest. Just as he’s about to drop to his knees, I take his elbow and pull him upright.

“Later. Breakfast first.”

He clicks his tongue, making me laugh.

We get dressed and head down to the kitchen. He makes us some tea while I make the eggs, the two of us sneaking glances at one another. He’s shirtless, and it’s distracting me, a fact I’m sure he knows judging by the satisfied look on his face.

We sit down to eat, and he squirms a little, shifting on his seat to try to get comfortable.

“Does your ass hurt?” I ask, spooning a scoop of scrambled eggs onto his toast.