The chatter of work drifts away on my ride home. I park my bike in the garage. Slip into the house. Climb the stairs as quietly as possible.
All the lights are out except for the one in Brendon’s bedroom.
Emma’s asleep.
I’m about to slip into my room and find a way to stay busy—to keep that confession from rising up my throat, to keep my thoughts of Grandma stuffed into the box where they belong—when Brendon pulls his door open.
He’s standing there, one hand in the front pocket of his jeans, the other on the doorframe, his t-shirt hugging his shoulders just so.
There’s practically a beautiful distraction arrow pointing at his head. Like something in a cartoon.
Already, the words are clawing at my throat.
I need to tell him.
I need him to know and to stay.
To still love me.
Does he love me now?
I don’t know. I’m sure he loves me as a friend, that he has for a long time, but this whole in love thing is new. Confusing.
He reaches for me. His arm slides around my waist. In one quick motion, he pulls me inside his.
He stares down at me with those intense, dark eyes. Right now, I know exactly what’s in them. Affection. Trust. Need.
His eyelids flutter together.
He leans down.
I rise to my tiptoes.
Our lips brush. Just barely. But it’s enough to fill my body with warmth. With need. With love.
My fingers go slack. My bag hits the hardwood floor with a light thud. It’s loud enough to wake Emma, but I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything but getting my hands in his thick, dark hair.
I don’t care about anything but kissing him back.
He tastes like whiskey. It shouldn’t taste good, but it does. It tastes like him.
I kiss him harder.
Deeper.
I shift my hips against his. Tug at his hair. Groan against his lips.
He feels better than he tastes.
He’s everything I want.
Well, almost.
I can’t risk that.
But, then, I can’t swallow this down much longer.
I kiss him until my lips are numb. When I finally come up for air, he’s staring back into my eyes.
“Nice to see you too.” He pulls the elastic band from my hair, undoing my ponytail. “Work good?”
“Busy.” I have to tell you something. I’m broken. I know you won’t believe me, so let me explain. I rise to my tiptoes. Kiss him again. Anything to keep the words from spilling.
He untucks my shirt. Undoes the top button. Then the next. His fingers brush my collarbones. My chest. My stomach.
I need those hands on my body.
I need one more time pressed against him—just in case he doesn’t keep loving me.
Just in case he runs away.
I pull back with a heavy sigh. My eyes go straight to his. Brendon, I have to tell you something.
It’s been eating at me for weeks. Longer even. I wanted to tell him when it happened. I wanted to tell him the first time I had an ugly thought.
I want him to save me from it.
I know it doesn’t work that way. I get it now. But there’s still a part of me that thinks he can wipe everything away.
No, I know he can.
Just only for a little while.
“You’re thinking something.” His fingertips skim my jawline.
I’m thinking a lot. And it’s all on the tip of my tongue. Either I go back to my room or I tell him. Those are the two options. I’m not sure which is worse.
His palm presses against my cheek.
Fuck, his skin against mine—
The comfort of the gesture—
I need that right now.
And I need him to know.
I stare back at him. “That I need a shower.”
He motions to his bathroom. “I’ll join you.”
Yes. That’s perfect.
I nod. Follow him into the bathroom. Take my time stripping him out of every layer. He does the same.
Then I step into the tub and I soak up every drop of him.
After, we help each other towel dry and collapse in his bed.
I shouldn’t sleep here. I shouldn’t even be here with Emma in the next room.
But I can’t tear myself away.
It feels too good, having his warm, wet skin pressed against mine.
He wraps his arms around me. One under the crook of my neck. The other over my waist, his palm resting on my stomach.
I’m in his arms, my back against his chest, his breath warming my neck.
I should be melting.
I should be forgetting everything.
But those words are screaming at me.
Brendon, I have to tell you something.
It’s a simple enough start. Ominous, yeah, but simple.
“Hey.” He runs his fingers through my wet hair. They skim my ear. My neck. My shoulder. It’s impossibly soft. Like he’s trying to drive me crazy.
“Hey yourself.” I lean into his touch. My eyelids flutter together. Fuck, that feels good. He feels good. All of this—I can’t lose it.
But I can’t keep hiding this.
I need him to know.