Page 84 of Martyr
He sits up slowly, looking around, and swings his legs over the edge. His feet make indents in the booth cushions, and he takes a moment with his elbows on his thighs.
“Water?” I scramble around the bar and find a clean glass. That alone seems like a miracle. I rinse it out then fill it and bring it back.
“Thanks.” He accepts it and drinks deeply, his throat bobbing with every swallow. When it’s gone, he hands it back.
I don’t know what to do, so I just hold it and stare.
How on earth do I tell him that the thought of him dying is one of my most terrifying?
“Tem…” He winces and reaches for my free hand. “I’m so sorry.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For everything that’s happened since you came to my hospital room after the car accident.” He squeezes my fingers, his blue eyes burning. “For telling you I loved you and then treating you like I hated you.”
Wait—what?
He remembers that?
My mouth opens and shuts, but I can’t seem to get any words out.
“For tattooing Kade when I knew it would hurt you,” he continues. “For not seeing that you were screaming in agony for weeks after what Gabriel did. For our first time having sex being as rough and as cruel as I was. Oh—don’t cry.”
I’m not, I want to say, but then he reaches up and swipes my cheek, smearing wetness across my skin.
“Elora has always been the stars,” he says softly. “But you’re the goddamn sun. And I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you weren’t.”
He takes the glass from my hand and sets it aside, then tows me in.
When his lips meet mine, it’s not hard. It’s not demanding.
It’s so sweet, it makes me want to sob. I inch closer, but there’s too much in the way. The way he’s seated, the side of the booth, the table. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, a sound of frustration, and suddenly grabs me by the hips and lifts me. I get my knee on the table and swing my other over him, settling on his lap straddling him. I immediately wrap my arms around his shoulders. My nails drift under the collar of his shirt and up his neck.
He hums, deepening the kiss. He tugs my braid to angle my head the way he wants it.
He remembers.
The pain of the last few weeks doesn’t go away, but this certainly helps.
I need to be closer.
I slide my palms down the center of his chest and go for his pants. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and it’s all I can do to stay focused on the task. Once his dick is out, I wrap my fingers around it, squeezing and moving my palm up and down. He’s hard, but it stiffens further in my grasp.
“Your pants,” he says against my lips.
I undo the button and shove them down. I use his shoulder for balance and stand on the booth seat, between his legs, and get them down to my ankles. Before I can get back into position, he holds my hips and leans forward. His breath coasts along my pubic bone. He kisses there, then lower. I lean back and widen my stance for him to give my clit attention. He pushes a finger into me and hums in appreciation.
I’m already on the verge of losing it, and he’s barely touched me.
“Come here.” He finally withdraws, and he smirks at my expression. “Hmm, I remember that look.”
“Good,” I breathe.
I straddle him again, and his hand slips between my legs. He brings me to the edge, his gaze glued to my face.
“So responsive,” he murmurs. “When’s the last time you came, wildcat?”
I whimper. I truly didn’t think I’d ever hear him call me that again.
