Page 92 of The Finish Line

Putting our own story into words reminded me of just how much we’ve been through, but it also reminded me of the reason we can’t fully mend—all of the fucking secrecy.

He can’t change his spots overnight. All things ingrained—bad habits included—have cemented his personality over time.

Secrets are who and what he is, because he’s lived as a secret himself for countless years.

If I want this to work, I’m going to have to remember that and try not to resent him for the secrets he still harbors.

Whether he’s aware or not, he’s still keeping them—

selectively.

After letting Beau back in, I tread lightly through the living room before using one of the discarded throw pillows to kneel in front of where he sleeps. He’s completely unguarded as he draws heavy breaths, his thick black lashes fanning over his sharp cheekbones. He’s bundled in one of the patched quilts I bought from an antique store when I moved here. He looks wildly out of place on my short couch that he dwarfs with his sleeping form. My fingers are itching to touch him, but Beau beats me to it by licking the side of his face. He grunts in disgust, pulling the covers over his head as I muffle my giggle. I expect him to resume his snoozing, but his voice sounds beneath the thick blanket.

“Va te faire voir, connard. Je sais que tu as dormi avec elle.” Fuck off, dickhead. I know you got to sleep with her.”

Stifling another laugh, I run my fingers through his hair, and he lowers the covers to glare at my pajamas before remorse-filled amber eyes meet mine.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispers, stretching his long legs past the confines of the arm of the couch before turning his body to fully face me. “You’re finally fighting back. Does that mean you’re starting to forgive me?”

Running my fingers through his thick black hair, I lean in, inhaling citrus and spice, the smell flooding me with memories. “Why can’t we just hate each other?”

“Simple,” he murmurs. “We love each other too fucking much.”

“We survived our first trashy fight.” I nod past my shoulder toward the door. “Complete with my parents in a trailer outside.”

He draws his brows. “This is good?”

“I think so.”

He lowers the patched quilt and cups my jaw, squishing my lips the way he did all those years ago in Roman’s kitchen. “All I want, Mon Trésor... is to build a bonfire the size of Texas and burn all these goddamn pajamas. It’s all I’m living for.”

My laugh breaks his hold as he easily lifts me from where I kneel to straddle him. He brushes the hair away from my shoulders as he gazes up at me, eyes probing.

“I have a lot to tell you, and some of it may make you angry, but I’ve lived many different realities and hidden so much for so long, it’s hard to distinguish what secrets I held and what lies I told and in which life.”

“So, tell me everything.” I blanket him, laying my head on his chest, and he wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on the top of my head.

“I plan to, Cecelia, but it’s . . .”

“I know it’s hard. And I will be as patient as I can be, within reason.” I press a kiss to his chest. “I do want you here, Tobias. I do,” I whisper, palming his chest where my kiss lingers to feel his steady heartbeat. “If it makes you feel better, Beau only got to first base.” I burrow deeper into him as he rubs his palms up and down my back, chasing away the morning chill.

“It’s hardly fair. He’s got home field advantage.”

“True, but this is your home too.”

His body relaxes with my words as he lifts me, adjusting me so we’re face-to-face, his dick thickening at my thigh, sending a wave of need throughout my body. I bend to kiss him just as he lifts to meet it. The kiss is sensual, unhurried, as he slides his tongue along mine, arm circling me as he crushes me to his chest. He feeds me his apology with every slow swipe of his tongue, and I reciprocate, moaning into his mouth, the ache of last night slowly slipping away as we part, eyes connected.

“Remember when—”

“Everything,” he says softly, flexing his fingers through my hair. “I remember everything, Cecelia. Every word you said, every look you gave me. Your three kinds of laughs, the details of your dreams, the way your nostrils flare when you’re starting to get pissed. The sting of your slaps, the salt in your tears, the fit of your breasts in my hand. The feel of your mouth, the taste of your pussy,” he murmurs, sliding his thumb along my jaw, “so which part do you need me to remind you of?”

Running palms down his arms, I start to lose myself in the feel of him as he pulls me back to his lips. Warm hands tentatively explore as his kiss drifts from my jaw and down my neck. Soaked and needy, my pulse kicks up as I slide my hand down his chest and over his stomach to cover his cock. His massive length jerks in my hand as I grip him through the material of his boxers. A pained groan vibrates my lips before I murmur his name, a request on the tip of my tongue just as a knock sounds at the door.

Tobias lifts, keeping me in his arms while letting out a string of French curses. I pull away just as perturbed but can’t help my laugh at his reaction. “Guess they’re early risers?”

I stand and yank the pillow and blanket from the couch and hand it to him as he stands, a full-sized tent pitched in his boxers, a deep scowl on his face as I nod toward his engorged cock. “Do something with that, will you?”

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