Page 370 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Ambrose moves to the bed, pulling me by the hand and not letting go as he sits. The mattress dips under his weight. A wet patch forms around him, soaking the sheets that still, somehow, smell like both Mom and Dad.
He glances down at the scars that join up perfectly. “If you have questions, I’ll try to answer anything you want to know. I don’t want secrets.”
“If anything comes to me, I’ll ask. Thank you for being open. Okay, something has.”
“Go on.”
“Would you have ever told me?”
“Yes. I had lots of things to tell you, and you somehow figured them all out before I worked out the best way to do it, but I would have told you.”
“Is it why you haven’t tried to go all the way?”
“No. That was the sickness thing. I was so focused on our prior relationship that I couldn’t enjoy the one we were building.”
“And you no longer feel that way?”
“No. I’m done fighting myself. It’s too fucking hard.”
“Okay.” Unintentionally, I smile. “Good.”
“Good,” he repeats, a smile on his face, too. “We should get out of these wet clothes before we actually do end up ill again.”
Letting go of my hand, he bends his good knee and pulls at a sock. The black, wet material falls heavily to the floor.
Lowering to my haunches, I test my own aching joints. Sinking my hands into his other sock, I try to prevent the strain that bending would have on his knee.
There’s a silence between us, when so many unspoken things are said as I look up at him and he looks down at me.
I want you.
I need you.
I missed you.
Those silent words call me up onto my knees, my fingers brushing the denim over his cock as I unbutton his pants. The sound of his zipper interrupts the pounding of my heart in my ears.
I feel... nervous.
That energy is contagious, because the boy I’ve always known to be so brave has a slight rocking to his legs, a glassy look in his eyes that I’d do anything to get rid of.
Anything.
So, I swallow that feeling down. The light tremble in my voice is still slightly noticeable as I request, “Lift for me.”
His hips rise off the bed as I dip my fingers into his jeans and slide them down his hips.
Working the wet material down over his ankles, I throw the jeans behind me.
He sits before me in nothing but a pair of boxers and the clear cover that sits over his new tattoo. That isolated look is still trapped in his gaze. Touching him might make it go away.
My hands brush over the dark hairs on his strong thighs.
Blinking, his vision becomes clearer to me.
Leaning down, he lifts me from the floor to my feet. He pulls my shorts to the ground, and I step away from them, kicking them back to meet his clothes. With careful fingers, he moves to my cami next—the tiny top sticks to me with rainwater.
His lips curve ever so slightly, the garment still hanging in his fingers as he takes me in. His eyes linger for a second on my matching outfit, consisting of a yellow lace bra, pink lacy briefs, and a stoma pouch that harbors both colors.
