Page 72 of The Way We Are

Once all her tears have cleared, Savannah fists my shirt in her hand and pulls me even closer to her. We are standing so near, our chests compete with every breath we take. “It was you, wasn’t it? You saved me?”

“Yeah,” I croak. “With help.”

I want to say more, but since I refuse to cry for the second time in my life, I keep my mouth shut. The image of her trapped in Axel’s car will forever haunt me, but for now, that doesn’t matter. She's here, standing in front of me. Everything else can wait.

Savannah’s face scrunches up as she battles to hold in fresh tears. “I knew it was you. I just knew it. I could smell you on me. On my skin.” Her tongue darts out to replenish her dry lips before she whispers, “On my mouth.”

When she loses her battle to keep her tears at bay, I sweep my hand across her cheeks. “Please don’t cry,” I beg, as unappreciative of her tears as I was of mine earlier.

Smiling to assure me they are tears of gratitude, she gives it her best fight to stop the moisture dribbling down her cheeks. Her attempts are borderline.

When a big salty tear falls onto her collarbone, I follow its trail with envy, jealous it's gliding past sections of her skin so flawless I’m afraid my hands will taint it. Savannah’s skin is so perfect, it's as if she was painted by the world’s most prolific artist. I wonder if that's why Savannah’s dad responds to her paintings more than her photos? Because he too sees every perfect stroke as well as I do.

I’m about to return my eyes to Savannah to inform her I am aware of her dad’s condition, but the image of her tear being absorbed by the collar of my unbuttoned shirt steals my focus. It isn’t the dangerous amount of cleavage she has on display that has me eating my words; it's the mottling of purple on her chest.

“Did I do that? Was that me?” I fall backward, landing on my bed with a thud.

When Savannah remains quiet, I want to lock my eyes with hers and demand an answer, but I can’t force them away from the purple bruise gleaming off her beige skin. I marked her. My hands marked her.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Fuck!!

“No, Ryan,” Savannah replies, her voice strong enough to break through the torment swallowing me whole. “The mark isn’t from you. It was from where the seatbelt latched onto my body during collision. You didn’t hurt me. You’dneverhurt me.”

I want to believe what she's saying, but I can’t. The bruise is right near the area I compressed her chest.

“I knew I was pushing too hard! I should have stopped! I should have left it to the professionals.”

It dawns on me I said my inner monologue out loud when Savannah says, “Then I’d be dead. If you didn’t keep blood pumping through my heart, I would have died.”

I cradle my head in my hands, her statement too honest for my guilt to stomach. Several nurses and doctors said the same thing last night, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Hurting her as a means to save her is still wrong.Isn’t it?

I want to say no, but the guilt caving in on me isn’t letting me believe that.

“Look.” Savannah unravels the knot in my dress shirt before fanning open the material. “See. It wasn’t you. It’s just a mark from the seatbelt locking into position during collision. It will be gone in a day—two at most. It doesn’t even hurt.”

She waits for my eyes to absorb the belt-width bruise stretching from her right shoulder to her left hip before pulling my hands away from my face to straddle my lap. Just like the night she comforted me in this very room, she hooks her thighs around my hips and curls her arms around my thrusting torso.

“You didn’t hurt me, Ryan. You’d never hurt me,” she assures, whispering in my ear. “You arenotyour dad. You willneverbe him.”

She continues issuing reassurance after reassurance for the next several minutes. I don’t know exactly how much time passes, but it's long enough the weight on my chest eases, but not long enough for my body to understand now isnotan appropriate time to respond to her closeness.

She just left the hospital for fuck’s sake; I shouldnotbe getting hard.

It’s not entirely my dick’s fault, though. Savannah’s last four whispered reassurances have been accompanied with nips to my ear, neck, jaw, and cheek. The one she's giving now is complemented by her lips brushing mine.

Her flirty attention shifts the air from devastation to lust. It's so vivid, it is almost palpable. It makes me completely forget where we are and how we got here. It makes me forget everything.Everything but her.

“Savannah—”

Her name barely leaves my mouth when her tongue slides between my lips. Just like the kiss we shared in the middle of my room, this one leaves no doubt I am lost, swept in a wave greater than the one that tried to take Savannah away from me yesterday.

She kisses me like I’ve always wanted to kiss her—like she can’t breathe without her lips on mine. I return her kiss with just as much eagerness, as Ican’tbreathe without her lips on mine.

By the time she withdraws from our embrace, all my turmoil has been forgotten, and I’m having a hard time remembering what day it is. The uncomfortable hardness in my jeans triples when Savannah slips off my lap at the same time my shirt slips off her shoulders.

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