Page 138 of Broken Breath
It’sneverenough.
I wrap my arm tighter around his waist and tug him in,guiding him until his legs stretch across my lap, fitting like they were always meant to be there. He lets out this tiny, involuntary gasp, and I feel iteverywhere.
His breath stutters, but he doesn’t pull away. His head dips, his cheek brushing my shoulder, and I slide my hand up to stroke him in slow circles along his thigh, my thumb tracing gentle patterns while my other hand curls against the curve of his shoulder.
He shivers against me, andfuck, I could stay right here forever.
But even withPetitleaning into me like this, even with his head resting lightly against my shoulder, eyes closed, there’s tension.
His body hums with it.
The lines around his eyes are tight, his lips pressed flat like he’s holding something in and is trying too hard to be still.
I ease my fingers into his hair, push the strands back from his forehead, and whisper against the crown of his head, “Qu’est-ce qui fait mal, mon Petit?What hurts?”
He exhales this small, hollow sound, but his eyes stay closed. “What doesn’t?”
I have no idea how to fix this, so I do the only thing I know and let my hand drift lower, stroking down the curve of his shin over his sweatpants, then up again, tracing slow, steady circles along his back. Just grounding him, giving him something to lean into me, and he does.
His weight softens,finallysinking into me fully.
I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing him in again.
“What can I do to make it better?” I murmur against his hair.
He shifts just slightly, one hand curling lazily againstmy chest while the other spreads wide, pressing flat over my stomach.
“You already did,” he whispers.
That does somethingdangerousto me, setting off a whole swarm of butterflies in my chest, flapping wild and hard because,fuck, he reallywantsme here. He actuallysaidit.
I breathe deeply, trying to settle it, but I can feel the grin pulling at the edges of my mouth. Still, there’s a weight I can’t ignore, pressing at the back of my mind.
“What happened yesterday? You were bleeding.”
Petittenses again, curling in on himself in that instinct to hide.
“I got hurt racing,” he answers, clipped.
“How?”
“It’s embarrassing.” He grips my chest a little tighter, the words appearing to cost him something. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I ease my hand back into his hair, letting my fingers slide slowly through the strands, trying to get him back to that relaxed state.
“Nothing would be embarrassing to me.Believe me.I don’t even know how to feel embarrassed.” I let that hang there because it’s true. I don’t have the wiring for shame. “You could talk to me aboutanything, lay out your worst thoughts, your weirdest shit, and I’d probably ask for more details. Nothing rattles me. Nothing makes me flinch.”
The conflict is clear in his eyes. Hewantsto trust me. I can see it, feel it in every breath he takes against my chest, but he’s still afraid. Probably bracing for the moment I pull away. So I don’t. Instead, I press another kiss to his temple.
“You don’t have to tell me the details, just tell me you’ll be okay, please.”
His head dips, resting against me again in a slow,exhausted nod, his hand flattening more firmly over my stomach, andfuck, my cock stirs at the touch.
I grit my teeth through it.Not the right fucking moment, ami.
“Yeah,” he answers. “In a day or three.”
“Okay,” I murmur, my fingers trailing lazily down the curve of his spine. “We’ve got at least eight hours to kill, how about you tell me something about yourself?”
