Page 65 of A Fighting Chance

His fists clench and loosen, on repeat.

I trail my fingers lower, around my belly button, pausing there to see if he’ll react, but he remains still. His jaw tightens.

“You’re really gonna make me do this alone?” I ask, and then I part myself with my fingers and inhale sharply.

His eyes are on fire—as is my whole body.

Having him watch me like this is making me feel almost drunk.

His eyes darken, and he bites his bottom lip as he watches my hand.

“Please,” I say, begging for his touch.

His lips part but he says nothing. He raises his shirt over his head and throws it to the floor. He unbuckles his belt, slides it out in one fluid motion, throws it down. He kicks off his boots and reaches for the button on his pants, his hand lingering there for just a moment.

The next thing I know, he’s walking toward me, wearing nothing but a sinister look. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m about to pay for this little game I’ve played. I don’t know if he wants to worship me or punish me, but maybe it’s a little of both.

He leans in close to me, his breath ragged. He takes me by the jaw and lifts my mouth toward him. He kisses me gently at first, then harder, his mouth covering mine until I open my lips for him. His tongue presses into mine, relentlessly, with fervor.

My arms come up and wrap around his neck. He presses me to the glass window behind me, his hands touching me everywhere. He cups my breast and I suck in a breath, our lips only parting because of it.

He bends down then and takes my nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking it. His hand presses against my neck just a little, his thumb rubbing over my jaw. He presses his knee between my thighs, spreading my legs wider. Then he rubs himself against the outside of me. I feel him slick with me on him as he agonizingly rubs himself against my entrance, teasing me.

My body arches toward him, pleading for him.

“You want me?” he asks, and I nod. But he says, “Tell me.”

“I want you. Please,” I beg.

That’s all it takes.

I feel him enter me, stretching me open. I inhale against his mouth again.

His eyes are pinched shut so tight, it’s like he’s concentrating on something specific or trying hard to restrain himself. He moves back and forth inside me, his hands gripping me, his fingers pressing into my skin. His body is hard against me—all rigidity, no softness. He pushes, harder and harder. He bends and kisses my neck as my hands run through his hair and tug at it. He bites the soft spot at the base of my neck then licks. My hands dig into his back next. One of my legs hooks around him, and he cups my backside with his large hand.

This is a frenzy, an act of desperation.

Our bodies collide again and again, like we can’t get there fast enough, like we’re both starved.

“Lyla?” he whispers.

“Gentry,” I exhale.

“I love you,” he says. Then he presses his mouth to mine, not waiting for any sort of reply.

I’m too far gone to the pleasure of the moment to stop or fight against it.

Before I know it, we’re climbing—both of us. We come, right there against the window of my little sister’s old bedroom.

He holds me close for a few minutes, then gently lets me down, pulling out and away from me.

I lean back, catching my breath.

He turns from me and places his hands on his hips, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in himself.

I’m not sure if I should say something, ask something. He just told me he loves me, and I don’t know what to do. So, I walk to him and press my face against his back, wrapping my hands around him and holding him over his chest. I find his heartbeat beneath my palm and keep my hand there.

He doesn’t move to stop me—or to reassure me. He just stands there, letting me exist with him.

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