Page 56 of From the Wreckage
The reason I came here—the panic, the rumors, Lily’s too-curious smile—all of it dissolves the second his lips crash over mine. I melt into him, the urgency between us eclipsing everything else.
“Christ, Bri,” he groans against my mouth, his hands cupping my face. “I was trying to stay away tonight. But you…” His lips claim mine again, rough and desperate. “You undo me.”
My hoodie hits the floor. His sweatpants follow. We’re tumbling toward the bed, kissing like we’ve been starved for this moment. His hands map me like he’s trying to memorize every inch, and my body arches into his, achy and needy.
When he finally moves inside me, it’s slow at first, reverent, his forehead pressed to mine. But the restraint doesn’t last. Soon we’re a tangle of limbs and gasps, clinging like the world might split apart if we let go.
Every thrust, every kiss, every whispered “angel” sends me higher, until I shatter around him, crying his name. He follows me over the edge, his grip bruising, his voice breaking as he buries himself in me.
We collapse together, tangled and breathless. His chest heaves beneath my cheek, his arm banded tightly around me.
I should tell him.
But the words won’t come out. Not when his lips brush my temple, his hand laces with mine under the blanket, and he whispers, “Sleep, angel. I’ve got you.”
“I need to be home before Dad wakes,” I murmur.
I feel him nod. “I’ll set my alarm.”
My eyes close, and the worry slips away, forgotten.
At least for tonight.
CHAPTER 39
Everett
The Timberline isloud enough to drown out my thoughts, which is half the reason I agreed to come. A live band plays in the corner, couples two-step on the sticky floor, and laughter echoes from every booth.
Grayson and Tom sit across from me, each with a beer in hand. We’ve been playing pool most of the night.
Tom’s phone rings, and he holds up his hand and points to the door.
When he returns, he tells us he’s heading out because Anita’s shift ended early.
Grayson nods toward the waitress. “One more?”
I nod, my eyes moving to my beer.
Then—like he’s just tossing it out there—he asks, “You ever been married?”
My grip on the bottle tightens. A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. I shake my head, keeping my tone neutral. “Nope. You?”
A wry chuckle rumbles out of him. “Once. Twelve years ago.” He doesn’t look at me, just fiddles with his beer bottle, his fingers restless. “Didn’t end well.”
I don’t push. Silence usually does the work for me.
“She left,” he finally says, his voice flat. “My ex. Just… left. No fight. No big blowout. Just a note on the counter, saying she was done. Left Bri with a neighbor we barely knew.”
My brows snap together. “A neighbor?”
He nods. “A woman who’d moved in two weeks before. Someone my ex had talked to maybe twice. And she left our nine-year-old little girl crying on that stranger’s couch.”
The image slams into me. Bri, nine years old, terrified, hoping her mom or dad would come back for her.
“Christ,” I mutter.
“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “I saw red. Didn’t even remember taking the steps across the yard. Found Bri clutching her stuffed rabbit, tears streaking her face, asking where I’d been. Thought I’d abandoned her, too.”
