“If that happens with me, you fucking go. Don’t try to comfort me. Not the way I do with you. You go. Do you hear me?”
She scoots away from me as I wipe the heavy beads of sweat from my forehead. I don’t wait for her answer. I leave her in the living room and go toward the bathroom. The door slams behind me, and I look at myself in the mirror. My flushed face glistens with sweat. Moisture darkens the collar of the T-shirt. My muscles feel tense and sore, as if they’ve used all their might to restrain me.
Emily is definitely a letter I should write, but I’m scared of what will happen if I do. Could it bring me relief? Yes. Might it instead cause me to self-destruct? Also yes. I can’t let Skye be an innocent casualty in a battle she never agreed to be in.
I also can’t let her find out about the trial and what I did to Emily.
I turn the shower on, raising the temperature as high as possible. Steam bellows from around the curtain as I strip off my clothes and climb inside, letting the water wash away the physical signs of my panic. Mentally . . . well, I want the cleansing powers of alcohol. I want to drink and let it wipe the memories from my head. At least for a little while.
The shower curtain startles me when it pulls open. Droplets of water leap from the porcelain and over the side of the tub. I turn my head from beneath the stream, brush my hair back, and let my eyes refocus. Skye stands beside me, wearing only her panties and a thin white cami.
She swallows hard before climbing in with me. I try to stop her, but the look on her face makes me drop my hands and welcome her in. The water falls on her, soaking her dark hair. Makeup smears down her cheeks. She pulls me into her with such force for someone so small. I lean my head against her shoulder. We are so tightly entwined that I feel her chest rise in unison with mine.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” I whisper over the sound of the water.
“Because I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”
“You don’t know enough about me to think that,” I say as my body melts against her.
“I know what I’ve seen and felt. Any other man would have taken me the first chance he got. Men think I’m weak and vulnerable, and it fuels a hunger in their bellies to take what they want.” Her neck muscles tighten as her jaws clench. “But not you. Even laid out in front of you, with your hunger raging inside, you didn’t take from me.”
She’s right. I never wanted anything as much as I wanted her that first time. But it was more important for me to protect her, especially from myself. I would never take her like that when she’s already had so much stolen from her.
Her nipples strain beneath the saturated fabric. As she pulls away from me, I see the gentle curves of her breasts, and I harden in an instant. When she looks up at me, I wipe the eyeliner from her cheeks. I trail my fingers down her neck and over her chest. I watch her expression carefully as I guide them toward her breasts and run them along her nipples. She closes her eyes, her jaw becoming lax, making her lips fuller.
Her eyes flutter open as I grab the straps on her shoulders and slowly pull them down. She tenses for a moment before the water hits her bare breasts. My hands follow the fabric down, and I circle her nipples before squeezing the flesh.
Water drips from the tip of her nose and glides over her heat-reddened lips. I lean in and kiss her, letting my tongue explore her willing mouth. She moans. Her hand trembles as she reaches down and wraps it around my cock. I flinch at her unexpected touch, but my muscles relax as she begins to move her hand.
I take a step into her and push her against the wall. I reach between her thighs and slide my fingers along the wetness between her legs. It’s too slick to be from anywhere but inside her. While kissing her, I trace her with my fingers. She moans against my mouth, and it makes my cock twitch. I push my fingers inside her, finding the origin of her warm wetness. I palm her and plunge my fingers inside her, and she answers with a gasp. Her hand tightens around me as her body tenses.
I want to come, but I want to make her come even more. I don’t care if I have to jerk myself off, as long as she clenches around my fingers.
Her moans grow louder, and she drops her head back as she gets close. A tightening throb pulses inside her, and I kiss her neck as she spasms around me and comes. She falls forward in spent pleasure, and I catch her against my chest. I expect her to pull her hand away, but she continues to stroke me as she breathes against my body.
“Fuck, Skye, I’m going to come.” I groan as I bury my face in her hair. “Do you want me to finish it?” I say through clenched teeth, fighting back the rising orgasm.
She shakes her head, and I feel the movement against my mouth. She strokes me until I come—a throbbing explosion at her touch. I groan and pull her against me. As the pleasure wanes, receding back into my balls, I pull her away and look at her. I read her every expression. She’s relaxed and calm . . . in ecstasy, even. My fingers graze her cheek once more.
How can I be so wrong for her when this feels so fucking right?