Page 138 of Brazen Deceits

I wipe my palms on my jeans. “I could tell I was hurting you, that I was hurting myself too, and I just couldn’t seem to knock myself out of it. And then in Chicago? It was better. Not perfect, but better. Only, I just kept hurting you, tiny daggers in your trust, in your joy, and it was like stabbing my own damn heart. So I left—I wanted you to have the best, andthe person scraping your wounds open with sandpaper…that person wasn’t best for you.”

“Oh, Walker.” There are tears shining in her eyes, but I can’t stop. I don’t know if I’ll ever get going again if I do.

“It was hell, Clara. But I didn’t know how to fix it. I was the one ruining it, and I had no fucking idea how to stop. But then I picked you up on Thanksgiving. Going straight from my family to yours, it made it obvious. Clara, you were so right. Love isn’t earned. It’s freely given. You gave it to me, and I didn’t need to earn it. I had it. And I’d turned it away.

“I resented trying and failing to earn your love. But that was never it. Love is just accepted. So I want you to know, Clara, that I accept you, without expectations or hurdles, and I just hope that you can trust me with that love again. I’ll cherish it, revel in it. I’ll fucking draw it in my blood.

“Because you’re in my blood, Clara. And I wantyou.“ I motion at the piece on the easel. “We all have masks. But yours are facets of your crystalline soul, and I love every one of them: the fierce, the brave, the giddy, the hurting, the conniving. Your masks let me see you. Mine block you out. I don’t want to wear a mask for you Clara, never again. This me? Just plain old me, no mask in sight? I’m yours.”

My hands hang heavy and weird on my arms. “I love you, Clara.”

She stands still, tears streaming down her cheeks, and all I can think is that I’ve fucked it up again. Tears threaten me, and I blink fast—I’m not going to cry, not when I’m the one who’s hurt her again.

Then, slowly, she inches toward me, her fists bunching the fabric of my coat, dragging me closer. Her fingers slink intomy hair, her nails nipping at my scalp as she drags me down, her lips fluttering over one of my cheeks, then the other, her thumbs tracing my eyebrows. “I love you, too,” she whispers, our lips a hairsbreadth apart. “And you’ll never have to earn my love, Walker. It’s yours. Completely.”

Our lips touch, soft with promises, trust.

I pull her close, needing her in the circle of my arms, the flower scent of her hair easing the last of my nerves.

“I love you, Walker,” she says, kissing me again.

My fingers tangle in her hair, all of her so precious it hurts to think about anything but now. Pulling away from her kiss, I hold her so tight I’m not sure either of us can breathe. “I love you, Clara,” I say into her crown, needing to say it again.

“I love you.”

The pain spirals into aching joy, and I kiss her like she’s my everything—because she is—telling her I’m done hiding, that I’m here, with her, forever.

Our lips touch, reverent, transcendent.

Her fingers unhook the buttons on my coat, sliding the heavy wool from my shoulders. I repeat the gesture with her coat, both of our breaths fast as we stand facing each other. I pull my shirt off, and Clara mirrors me, unhooking her bra too. And she’s just so beautiful.

I swallow, pulling off my jeans and boxers, watching as she does the same, both of us kicking off our boots and socks. She takes a small step toward me, and I close the distance, her skin hot against mine, our lips locking, my eyes closing as I revel in the moment of being so close to someone else that it feels like our souls are touching, not just our skin.

“I love you,” I murmur, cradling her face in my palms, the words still so new that I can’t stop repeating them.

“I love you, too,” she says, her lips pressing to my chest, right over my heart.

Every stroke of my hands over her skin is a balm, healing the cracks I made in our foundation, every press of her lips, a touch-up, an improvement, building something new. Better.

When I finally slide home, neither of us can take a breath, the moment too pure to ruin with pants and moans.

Her dark eyes shine with tears, but they’re good tears. Joy, hope, peace, they all radiate out of her like a beacon.

She pulls me down to meet her lips, wrapping her legs tight around my waist, hitching her hips to pull me even deeper, and I bite back a moan.

We move as one, both of us taking our time, building in near silence, our gazes locked, our souls meeting as we rock, our breaths matching, her floral scent mixing with the tang of paint and the musk of our arousal.

And when she comes, a surprised gasp bursting from her lips, I fall with her, locked in the circle of her limbs. Her nails dig into my shoulders, the burn welding the two of us together.

I’m loved. I’m hers. And I’m never letting go.

Epilogue

Trips

I’m the last to leave the house on Christmas Eve. Jansen went home days ago, dropping RJ off on his way out of town. Walker rolled out early this morning to help cook for his family.

There’s no fucking way I’m going home for more than the absolute minimum amount of time I promised my father.

---