Page 167 of Love Me Stalk Me
I can hear it—feel it.
Thudding against my ribs, loud, insistent.
The words are right there, sitting on the edge of my tongue, begging to be spoken.
I should say them.
I need to say them.
But it's so damn hard. Because what if I say it wrong? What if I ruin whatever this is? What if he doesn't feel the same way?
And beneath all that, the questions I've been avoiding: What does it say about me that less than a week after Evan attacked me, I'm yearning for another man's touch? That after surviving an assault, my body still craves connection? That I feel most safe with a man I barely know?
The thoughts spiral, but I fight through them, forcing myself to breathe. I remember what I told Caleb in our texts earlier -- that I needed to be honest, with myself and with Cal.
I take a slow, shaky inhale. Then I finally,finallyforce myself to speak.
"Cal..."
My voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it. I know he does. Because the second the name leaves my lips, he stills completely.
And then he waits. He doesn't push or rush me. He just waits. Like he knows exactly how much effort it takes me to say this.
"I don't know what this is," I admit, my hands gripping myknees to keep them from shaking. The fabric of my sweatpants bunches beneath my fingers. "I don't know if I'm just feeling this way because of what happened or because I was vulnerable or because you saved me but...I don't think I care."
He stays perfectly still.
But I see it.
His fingers twitch, like he's restraining himself.
I keep going.
"I'm confused about so many things right now. About how my body can still want after what it just went through. About how I can experience fear and desire at the sam time. "There's this voice in my head saying I should be afraid of any man's touch right now, but instead..."
I take a deep breath. "All I know is that I want to be around you. I want you to hold me. I want you to kiss me like you did before, and it scares me because I don't want to make you some kind of rebound, or take advantage of how much you've been taking care of me, but I don't know how to stop wanting you either."
I look him directly in the eyes, summoning all my courage.
"And the only difference I can figure is consent. Despite everything, despite maybe because of everything -- I trust you, Cal. With you, I have a choice. And I...I choose this. I choose you. If you want me."
The words tumble out in a rush, frantic, desperate, completely unfiltered. And when I finally stop, his expression shifts. His eyes soften. His hands slide up, cupping my face, his thumbs grazing over my cheekbones in a touch that is so light, so careful, it makes my chest ache.
He's so close now.
I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders, the war waging behind his eyes. I can smell the mint on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I want to kiss you."
His voice is so quiet, like he's saying something he shouldn't.
"Yes." The word leaves my lips, shaky but sure. His grip tightens against my skin. His jaw flexes.
“Are you sure?”
He's giving me an out, but I don't want it.
Because I know—deep in my bones, in the pit of my stomach, in the rapid pounding of my heart—that this isn't just about wanting him.
