Page 117 of Ink Me Three Times
But it’s not.
“I don’t know,” she says finally. “At the time… it felt right. All of it. With you. With Tim. With Freddie. I didn’t feel judged or broken or like I had to be someone else. I just felt… wanted.”
She says the last word so quietly I almost miss it.
Wanted.
And man, it makes something twist behind my ribs.
I reach for her hand, and when she doesn’t pull away, I thread my fingers through hers.
Her fingers squeeze mine.
Hard.
She’s holding on to a life raft.
Her eyes flick to my mouth.
My hand lifts to her face, thumb grazing along her jaw, slow and deliberate. Her lips part slightly. Barely. But it’s enough.
I lean in.
Wait half a second, just long enough to let her stop me if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
So I kiss her.
Not gentle. Not rough.
Just deep.
The way I’ve wanted to since the moment we left that hotel room.
Her mouth opens to mine, and the taste of her is just as good as I remember. Warm and sweet and desperate. She sighs into me and I feel it everywhere, my chest, my spine, low and sharp in my gut.
My hands find her hips, pull her closer. Her fingers curl into my shirt, like she needs to anchor herself or she’ll float right out of her own skin.
She moans into my mouth.
This kiss is the only thing holding her together.
And maybe it is.
Because right now, I know the feeling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ivy
I’m lyingflat on my back in Jesse’s guest room with Pickle stretched out on my stomach like a smug, slightly fart scented heating pad, phone balanced against my ear, and a rising tide of dread sloshing around inside my ribcage.
It’s fine.
Everything’s fine.
Except it’s not, because I just told Olivia I’m pregnant and now I’m staring at the popcorn ceiling as if it might offer some kind of divine guidance. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It just has a suspicious stain that looks vaguely of Abraham Lincoln, which feels metaphorically relevant somehow.
