Page 51 of Quietly Falling
I cut the distance between us in half and face off with him. “You don’t want to be my friend because you like me, and instead of justsaying thatyou left me at the bar and ran back here tonight. And for what?”
Nostrils flared and hands clenched, he’s still as I move until I’m right in front of him, until I can feel his breath on my skin.
“I didn’t run.”
“I think you did. Why?”
“It’s not about me. We’re here for you—for your family. That’s what’s important.”
“So, you’re a martyr? Sacrificing your happiness when you don’t have to?”
“My whole damn life has been a sacrifice.” The admission is pained, the hurt palpable as we face off.
“And you’re still punishing yourself.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Say I want to be your friend?” I let my eyes drop to his lips before moving closer again. “Idon’twant to be your friend.”
“Ella.”
“Are you gonna tell me it doesn’t matter if I like you too? If I hadn’t known what to tell Roman so I pickedfriendseven if it didn’t feel like the right word?” Leaning into him, I rest my palms on his chest, and I can feel his heart hammering as he audibly swallows.
“I don’t?—”
“You don’t get to make decisions for me, Bodhi Maxwell. This isn’t just some kind of distraction—at least not for me. And I know it’s not for you either.” His exhale is heavy like he’s close to unraveling, so I push him harder. “Because I can feel the way you’re holding back—so afraid to make a mistake. But I can also feel the way you’re desperate to touch me…”
“Ella.”
“Don’t.” It’s a whisper as I drag my nails down his stomach, the muscles rippling and clenching beneath my touch.
It’s the last word before he snaps, before he’s crushing me against him and devouring my mouth in a kiss that is likely to scorch my very soul.
I moan and gasp but he only holds me tighter, kisses me deeper, as I back us down the hall to the bedroom.
“Ella, I?—”
“Oh my God, let me take care of you for once,” I huff, spinning us before pushing him down onto the bed.
“I feel like you’ve done plenty of that already.” His lips twitch, his eyes blazing as I grab the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.
“Not like this.”
He hadn’t let me touch him in the hotel, not really, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about—thismoment when I can worship him the way he deserves.
Lying back with his head on the pillows, he watches me, his lips parting as his throat bobs. He’s so gorgeous, his chest and ribs covered in harsh black tattoos—a phoenix rising from the ashes, a skull in the roots of a tree, and so much more. Jagged lines, powerful and masculine, tell a story of the kind of life this beautiful man has endured.
The only thing of color is a stunning monarch butterfly with the name “Audrey” written in script beneath the outspread wings.
He doesn’t say anything as I drag my hands over the ink, reverently acknowledging each piece with my fingertips as I go. I’m halfway down his ribs when the raised skin under the ink makes me catch my breath, my eyes flying to his in question as rage and anguish war inside me.
“Who did this to you?” The vehemence in my tone seems to surprise him as memories flash through his eyes, like he’s reliving it in real time.
Because there’s no doubt—this isn’t something you get from falling off your bike. It’s something heinous, dark and ugly, something that’s he’s intentionally covered under the tattoo.
“Not now,” he rasps, the moonlight highlighting the pain in his features—the pain he’s been carrying. But more than that, it’s the fact that he’s letting me see it, if only on the surface.
Trusting me with this.
