Page 55 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter thirty-five

RYLEIGH

My heart pounds, a bass drum in my chest.

The only person who has ever seen me without even a silk scarf over my head is my mother.

I’m not ashamed of my battle with cancer, but I can’t help the self-consciousness that comes with the hair loss, with feeling like I’m not as pretty, or weird, or different.

And I hate that I feel that way, but I do.

Since I finished chemo, a fine stubble has started to form.

It’ll be months before I have anything resembling a pixie cut, and I pine for the day, resigned to covering my head until I do.

Revealing myself to someone as sinfully hot as Grayson is even more disconcerting than a stranger, because I care what he thinks.

If I remove my wig and the longing fades from his eyes, I might never recover.

I swallow, my nostrils flaring as I hold his gaze, so filled with affection, it eases the fear of rejection ballooning inside my chest.

I can trust him with this—with me .

I nod, and he helps me sit.

Anxiety squeezes my chest, taxing my already burdened lungs and I cough.

With trembling hands, I reach to the top of my head. Sliding my fingers beneath the wig, I close my eyes and lift.

I set it to the side of the bed, the air cool on my scalp, my breathing shallow.

“Sinclair, look at me.” His soft voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my own.

My heart responds, beating a little harder. Tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

He places his fingers beneath my chin and tilts it. Taking a deep breath, I ready myself for his reaction and open my eyes to find his gaze steady on mine, the soft gray deepening to blue as they slide over me.

Funny how I could stand buck naked in front of him moments ago with no problem, but without a wig, I feel stripped bare.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Ry.” The sincerity in his words makes my heart ache. “I wish you knew how much, because you’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

He places his hand on my chest, over my racing heart, and I swallow. Breathe. Pray my lungs hold up.

“You’re made for me, Sinclair. And you’re the only woman I ever want to look at again. The only one I want to touch.” He dips his head and brushes his lips over the hollow of my throat .

A sob escapes my lips, but he shifts, bringing his mouth back to mine and swallowing it with a kiss.

I love you.

I want to whisper it against his lips, to scream it out loud, but I’m too afraid.

I’ve already opened myself up to so much rejection in the last few moments, I can’t bear anymore.

Grayson’s hands slide beneath me, gripping my ass and guiding me onto his lap while I stare into his eyes.

My hands reach between us, gliding over the strong lines of his face like I can memorize him with my touch. His straight nose. Dark brows. The sharp curve of his jaw, and the little bit of scruff that’s grown in the last two days. His full lips. The masculine slope of his throat.

I want to memorialize him, remember this moment forever, and sear him into my brain so I can take him with me wherever I go, even the places he can’t follow.

I press a kiss to this mouth, shifting on his lap where I feel him impossibly hard and ready. The ache in my chest fades as lust takes over. I’m not afraid of what’s about to happen, not after everything I’ve been through.

“You’re sure?” he asks, staring in my eyes.

I nod, biting my lip, suddenly nervous, more vulnerable than before. “In the nightstand.” I motion my head, and Grayson reaches across me to the nightstand and pulls out the little foil packet.

He arches a brow, and I shrug, sheepish .

“You were planning on seducing me this whole time?”

I blush. “A girl can hope.”

“Ry, you never have to hope with me. Not when I’m already hopelessly yours.”

His mouth meets mine, a gentle brush of lips. In the background, I hear the crinkle of foil, and then his hands are on me everywhere, touching every inch of exposed skin.

The ball of heat in my gut ignites, and I bite his lower lip, suck until he releases a soft growl.

His fingers find my center, and I gasp when he brings me close to the edge before they disappear again, instead gripping my hips.

Slowly, he guides me onto him, easing into me.

I exhale, my breath ragged in my wasted lungs as I stare into his eyes, watching the heat in his gray depths ignite as his pupils dilate.

He moans, stilling for a moment as I suck in a breath, adjusting to the twinge of pain before it fades, replaced by yearning for more.

And then on instinct, I begin to move.

With him guiding me, I chase the pulsing pleasure—the ball of fire building inside of me—until we both burn.