Page 160 of Past the Broken Bridges

One minute.

Two.

After three, he meets my eyes. Then he holds out his hand. “Come here.”

Biting my lip, I look down at the planks.

“I won’t let you get hurt. I promise. I just need…”

Youis the unspoken word I let myself believe he was going to say.

My steps are slow and careful as I try mimicking the moves he made to avoid the weak spots. The second I put my hand in his, a spark shoots up my arm as he pulls me into him as the board underneath my foot gives out.

We fall, me landing on top of him on the ground. Heart racing as I look down at his panicked face, he’s quickly examining me, frantically about to ask, “Are you—” when I stop him with my mouth.

The kiss drowns out his question as I position myself over him so my knees dig into the soft grass on either side of his waist.

His hands go to my hips, my shirt rising slightly until a sliver of discolored skin appears. He gently runs a finger over it, his brows furrowing. When he lifts the material, he sucks in a breath when he sees the other bruises along my abdomen.

They started showing up days ago. Each spot a horrible shade of purple and blue. There are other patches that areyellow. My ribs show in ways they haven’t in a long time, making me look ten times worse than I feel. If my mother had a say, she would be force-feeding me every two hours.

I can only imagine what being back home will be like once she sees me. It’ll kill her. All of those memories of her crying in the kitchen over me will become another reality.

But I don’t want to think about that.

I don’t want to think about anything.

I return his hands to my bare skin, trailing them up to my chest until I make him cup me above my bra. “Help me forget.”

“Sawyer—”

“I won’t break.”

Doubt clouds his eyes.

“I won’t,” I whisper in assurance.

I lean forward, kissing him once, twice, three times until he finally kisses me back. Gently, so gently, he explores my mouth and my body under my clothes. When it’s clear that he won’t take the lead, I do.

And he lets me.

Not turning me down.

Not rejecting me.

Giving me control.

Letting me set the pace.

To take what I need.

His hands explore every marred inch of me.

Every bruise.

Every scar.

Every piece of exposed skin that shows the state of my health that’s ripping us apart.

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