Page 27 of Healing You
“It's his car, isn't it?” Steve asked. “The ex-fiancé's?”
She sighed, falling onto Gatsby and using his belly as a pillow. “Yeah. It is. I've been trying really hard not to think about him moving here. But I guess it's really happening.”
They were quiet for another moment before Steve lay back in the grass beside her. His knuckles grazed the outside edge of her hip, and he traced the line up her waist. He knew it was a bad idea, but it felt like a marionette string was attached to his hand, pulling the weight. As though the muscles were acting without the brain's permission. Her breath caught beside him and he froze. “I'm sorry,” he said, pushing up to a seated position again.
Her hand clamped around his wrist, squeezing. “No. Stay.” She swallowed audibly and released her hold on his arm. “It felt... nice.” She seemed to want this as much as he did. Shit, she practically pinned his body down with her gaze, and it crumbled any bit of defense he had left inside of him.
He moved his hand, curling his fingers around hers, and stretched her arm out over his stomach so that her scar was facing him. Forcing himself to see the destruction he'd caused when she went through his windshield. It was pure damn bad luck that the glass had sliced vertically along a main artery of hers. And pure damn good luck that the glass had gotten lodged there, preventing her from bleeding out. As much as he wanted to look away and massage a different part of her body instead, he forced his gaze to settle on the scar as he dragged his fingers gently up her wrist to her elbow and back down again.
Bending down, he pressed a kiss to the scar, hearing her sigh above him.
“I'm sorry for the accident. I've always wanted to say that. It was just as much my fault as it was yours.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and air lodged in his throat making him feel inexplicably nauseous. “Please don't say that. We both know it's bullshit.”
“You know it's not bullshit. Yes, you were driving, but if I hadn't been distracting you—Jesus, I was practically in your lap.”
“Yeah. But I was behind the wheel. I was in charge. And I shouldn't have been driving when you weren't buckled in.” It wasn't often Steve let himself remember that night in detail. It was those memories that always got him into trouble, spiraling him back into depression, or worse—making him relive it all over again. He looked back to Yvonne's bright hazel eyes and bow-shaped, pin-up girl lips that were currently curved into the sweetest pout he'd ever seen in his damn life.
“I know, Steve. I've known for a while judging by our very limited conversations the last thirteen years. Even if you're not admitting it out loud, it's probably safe to say that deep down, you agree that the accident was my fault.”
What in the hell was she talking about? Yeah, he was a little mad in the beginning that she had blamed him entirely, but the more he thought about it after reading that letter, the more he had understood. “You blamed me for the accident. You were livid. You never wanted to see me again.”
“I was mad at life—at the world—about the accident. I was mad at everything and everyone. I was a teenager who thought I'd lost my ability to walk. But that wasn't the real reason I was mad at you.” She whirled back, nearly pulling away—and he almost let her. Almost. But some little voice deep inside told him to hang on, and that's just what he did, his hand clasping gently around hers. Her eyes remained very serious on his. “I was mad that you abandoned me after. You and Ronnie both.”
He shook his head. “You were mad at me in the hospital, too, though.” But the truth in her voice was more sobering than a slap in the face and he studied her hard, searching for any hint that what she was saying wasn't true. It was there—all the honesty Yvonne had to offer in the world. Did the accident also give her memory loss? Did she not remember writing that letter? Written with the only good limb Yvonne had left directly after the car wreck. She wanted nothing to do with him—she'd said as much. “You didn't want me around. It was what you wanted,” he said, his voice nearly unrecognizable as it came out low and garbled.
“That was never what I wanted,” she whispered.
A part of him wanted to argue with her. Dig out the letter he had saved all these years and show it to her. Then again, why remind her of how much she hated him if she was moving on from that? This is asking for trouble, said a little voice inside him. Look to the future, not to the past. “And what about now? What do you want now?”
When she didn't answer him, Steve lowered his mouth to hers. Before he could reach her, she lurched into his arms, meeting him halfway. She practically rolled on top of him, pinning him to the grass, her knees on either side of his waist. His hands curved around her hips, traveling down the short, muscled legs and smooth skin at her thighs. After thirteen years, it was time to throw his hands in the air. He was surrendering. Surrendering to Yvonne… to his past… to his feelings.
Her tongue stroked against his and when he groaned into her mouth, she echoed it with a moan of her own. Its sound was filled with arousal and came from deep in her throat. Then, pulling back as if she was going to end the kiss, she sighed and deepened it instead.
Steve scooped his hand up her tight abs, not stopping until he reached her breast. Her thighs squeezed his body just as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger from beneath the tight fabric of her sports bra. She gasped, stretching her head back and giving him perfect access to the taut skin at her neck.
He was kissing his way down her throat, when Gatsby's wet nose nudged their elbows. Yvonne jerked back, quickly rolling off of him and dropping her face into her hands. “Oh, my God. We're in the middle of a park. What are we doing?”
With the moment broken, Yvonne jumped to her feet, brushing bits of grass off her shorts.
“Yvonne—”
“I have to go,” she mumbled, a spray of pink flushing at the apples of her cheeks and across her nose.
With that, she grabbed Gatsby's and Ruckus's leashes and took off running back toward the East end. She bolted down the street, faster than Steve could ever run. A car sped in her direction, taking the curve way too fast for his liking. Even though she was on the sidewalk, his heart paused for a pulse and his lungs felt like someone was squeezing the air out of them like an accordion.
Steve froze, his breaths becoming shorter and sharper as the panic rose in his chest. “Yvonne!” he screamed her name, grabbing Molly's leash, taking off behind her.
The car continued on, passing her and driving on down the road as Yvonne kept running, unaffected—emotionally or physically by the vehicle beside her. She was fine. She was fine. And the car had been nowhere near her.
The deafening rush of blood in his head slowed, his heart rate returning to normal as Molly nudged his hand, licking his fingers, slowly bringing him back to reality. The ground was beneath his feet. His dog was at his side. And Yvonne was alive and well. With a final deep breath, he took off after her once more, knowing that he probably couldn't catch up to her, couldn't protect her if he tried.
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return to. Y vonne's feet hit the pavement hard with each stride. What was she thinking? Kissing Steve? Straddling him? Opening up a whole new world of pain and possibilities. No, not a whole new world—an old one. A world I already lived and nearly died in and vowed I'd never He was bad news for her... would it take her another several years of crying herself to sleep to learn that?
But, God did that kiss feel good. And maybe that was something she shouldn't ignore either. One kiss had spurred her libido more than thirteen years of mediocre sex with ex-boyfriends.
