Page 59 of His Good Girl
I lower my eyes. “Yes.”
“Do you like it when I call you that?”
“Good girl? Yes.”
“Mine,” he growls.
Letting out a soft pant, I nod, unable to form words right now.
“I’m so proud of you for standing up to your friends,” he murmurs, bringing my hand to his lips to kiss lightly.
I feel like I could float if he let go of me. My self-esteem has skyrocketed, and it makes what I did to myself seem so foolish and ridiculous. He must see my face fall because he grips my chin and lifts my head up to meet his gaze.
“Are you okay, Serena?”
“I’m okay.”
“What did you do on Friday night that scared Rue and Quentin so much?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Tell me,” he demands. “No secrets. Serena. If you keep things from me, it will make me angry that you don’t trust me. You trust me, don’t you?”
How can I answer that? I don’t even really know him. But all I have to do is stare into those magnificent blue eyes and see his worry to know I do. “Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
Swallowing, I pull my hands away from him, missing his touch, feeling cold at the loss of it. Running my hands up my arms, I push my sleeves up and then hold my arms out to show him.
His sharp intake of breath, followed by a mask of complete sorrow, breaks my heart. I feel worthless for disappointing him so badly.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, dropping my arms and standing up.
He grabs my hand and hauls me down. “No,” he says quietly, brushing my hair away from my face. “I’m sorry, Serena. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you all the times you needed me.”
“Ooh,” I gasp, his words hitting my sweet spot with such accuracy I nearly come on the spot. “You’re here now.”
He cups my face but still doesn’t kiss me. I’m desperate for it, for him. I want to taste him. I want to devour him. “I will be there for you always. You never need to worry about being alone anymore, Serena. I am the one you’ve been looking for. I am the one who will save you. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
I feel so stupid. I can’t seem to form proper sentences around him. I’m a panting, sweaty, inarticulate mess with fresh self-harm scars and a beat-up soul. What does he see in me?
Lowering my eyes again and withdrawing, he takes my chin and tilts my head again.
“I understand what it’s like to be haunted, baby girl. Tell me, who hurt you?”
Shaking my head, I choke up. “I can’t. Not yet,” I whisper.
“I will avenge you, my sweet, sweet angel. You don’t deserve to carry this burden around with you. It’s dragging you into the darkness, and I don’t want you there with me. I want you to be in the light, to flourish and grow into a spectacular woman who has nothing to fear.”
Cupping his face, I dare to ask, “Who hurt you, angel?”
He laughs sadly. “How about this? You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’m not pressuring you. You will do that to yourself depending on how badly you need to know about me.”
