Page 42 of Ugly Truths
The hand against my chest twitches. “That’s not what it looked like the other day,” she says.
When I’m sure she won’t push me away, my lips return to their exploration, skating across her jaw until I’m looking down at her again.
“Alice is sweet,” I admit, hands roaming upward, tracing the familiar lines along her ribs, up the curve of her breast. The way she arches into me, even as she fights it, makes something vicious twist in my gut. “Intelligent. Beautiful. And she hasn’t tried to ruin my entire life.”
Shame flickers across her face, followed by doubt as she starts to shrink into herself. She thinks this is a game or a punishment. Maybe it should be. I could walk away before I let myself feel anything beyond this.
Even though those words scream in my head, my hand curls to the nape of her neck to keep her in place and the truth bubbles up like acid in the back of my throat.
“But she isn’t you.”
Elena’s eyes widenjust a fraction. There’s no missing the pain in my admission, and her mouth pulls downward at the corners.
It takes several moments for her hand to relax. Her fingertips trace the fabric of my shirt in a tender gesture that contrasts with the sudden tears she attempts to blink away.
Her throat bobs. “I want to say yes,” she whispers, though she doesn’t pull back, “but this is a bad idea.”
The second the words leave her mouth, something caves in my chest. My lungs won’t fill.
Then heat pours out of that hollow space. It drenches me—surges through every open inch of me—flooding my veins with a rage so blinding I can barely see straight.
A bad idea.
She must feel the way my body tenses, but her hands keep moving, soft and careful over my pec like she’s trying to soothe a wound she didn’t cause.
Her voice is so brittle that it breaks on the edges. “Nothing good will come of it,” she murmurs. “We’re both still hurting. I can’t speak for you, but I—” her eyes cast down to my chest. “I can’t go through this again. Not a second time.”
Not
A
Second
Time?
My fingers twist further into her hair, yanking down to angle her face up. She grunts at the pressure, swallowing the rest of her cry as I lean in, towering over her. The tears in her eyes are thicker now, clinging to her lashes, but she doesn’t look away.
Good. I want her to see this. To feel it.
Because how fucking dare she.
“Youcan’t go through this a second time?” I seethe through gritted teeth. “Because of the thingsyoudid—the decisionsyoumade—without letting me have a say?”
Did she mourn me the way I mourned her? Was she haunted by nightmares of me so vivid they bled into the morning? Did she learn to love me and hate me in the same breath? To wake up burning for someone she swore she’d never touch again?
My punishing hold tightens.
There’s no coward’s way out this time. If I’m suffering, she’ll be shackled right alongside me.
“I’m going to fuck you exactly how I want,” I growl, dark and final, “and you’re going to take it—” I lean in to make sure she sees me, hears me, feelseverythingI’m saying, “because you deserve whatever I’m willing to give you.”
A tremble ripples through her as the tears fall freely.
Time suspends between us.
I wait.
Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Those honey eyes search my face. Maybe for a hint of softness or a way out. I don't offer either.
