Page 40 of Falling

I kiss her jaw tenderly, once, careful not to contact her mouth. The feeling instantly makes me feel light and airy as I breathe her in. She smells like Gucci perfume mixed with sweet lavender soap. She’s all fresh and summery, and I just want to drink her in. Her hands move from my neck to my chest, her small hands fisting my shirt, drawing me in closer so I can taste her.

“Is this okay?” I ask, biting softly against the space just beneath her ear. She doesn’t respond. Only a soft gasp leaves her mouth. So, I press again, “Wren. Is this okay?”

“Mm-hmm. Just keep…” she says, her chest rising and falling. “Just keep doing that.”

While my mouth explores the side of her neck, Wren guides my hand that has gone limp at my side to her sweater. She slowly lets me slip it under the material, my hand spreading across her stomach.

She lets out a low noise of approval when the heat of my hand hits her cold stomach. Her abs tense beneath my hand, and I can’t help but run one of my fingers over them. I kiss and bite gently on her neck, and she moans quietly.

She fuckingmoans.

Her breathing quickens when I accidentally rock against her, and she gasps.

She’s going to be the death of me. But at least I'd die a happy man.

“Is he gone?” I ask into her skin. If she doesn’t put a stop to this, I might spend the rest of the night just like this.

Her voice is hoarse when she asks, “What?”

“Augustus. Is he still there?” I ask again, taking my hand out of her shirt. I suck in a breath at the sight of her. Her eyes are closed, and her cheeks are red. I turn back, and I can’t see him anywhere. “Wren. He’s gone.”

When her eyes open, her pupils are dilated. She searches my face, her chest rising and falling as she looks over me. Her eyes explore mine before she drops them to my lips. Her gaze hovers before she drops it, turns around, and runs away.

It takes my brain a while to register that she’s just disappeared from in front of me. I run after her, but she’s a lot quicker than I thought. I push through the crowds of people, trying to keep my eyes on the gold claw clip in her hair, but it’s fucking difficult. I shoot out quick apologies as I almost knock people over as I run past.

I catch her sprinting toward the bathroom, but there’s a small queue. She skips it, earning her a few grunts, and runs into the room before the next person can even open the door.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the guy at the front of the queue garbles. He’s clearly drunk, but I apologize anyway.

“Sorry. My girlfriend’s in there, and I need to check on her. Can you wait a few minutes?” I say, trying to open the door handle. He groans and walks away. The rest of the queue slowly follows after they realize that this might take a while.

“Wren, can you please open the door? I need to know you’re okay.”

I lean my head closer to the door, trying to hear better, but all I can hear is my heart hammering against my chest.

“It’s nothing,” she responds, but her voice doesn’t sound the same. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just— I’m fine, I swear.”

“You don’t sound fine, princess,” I say through the door. “Can you open the door, please?”

I hear her sniffle, and it tears me in two. She’s clearly not a big crier, and if she’s crying right now and it’s because of him, I’m going give Wren the fight she clearly wanted to see here.

After what feels like forever, I hear a click, and I push the door open, slowly.

The bathroom is all marble, and the bright lighting is startling compared to the dark neon lights on the other side of the door. The music is almost completely muted this far into the house, so I can hear the trickle of the tap and the sharp breaths Wren takes in. She’s standing with her back to me, her arms tight around her middle, looking out the window as if she’s completely immobile.

I walk toward her cautiously.

“Wren. Are you okay?” I ask quietly. I put my hand on her shoulders, and they drop with a shaky breath. “What happened?”

She turns around, her eyes filled with tears that haven’t fallen yet. She blinks up at me, tears slowly falling down her face. Instinctively, I swipe my thumb across her cheeks, futile attempts to help ease her pain, resting my hand on her face for a second before dropping it. Maybe I’m the problem. Every time I’m alone with this girl, I keep making her cry.

“I think… I think I'm having a panic attack,” she says. Her eyes drop to her shoes as I place both my hands on her shoulders, steadying her. “This is, like, my third or fourth one this week. My second one today.”

Her hands shake when she brings them to her face, rubbing at her cheeks.

How can she still look so beautiful even when she's crying?

I try to bring my hands to her face, but she backs away again, moving her hands frantically.

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