November 9
Page 31

I have to stop doing this to myself.
“Shh,” he whispers, thumbing the tears on my cheeks. My emotions are all over the place. I’m so pissed that he felt he has the right to even talk to me that way, but the fact that he just talked to me that way made my heart wish it had lips so it could kiss him. And I’m pissed off at myself for being so self-centered these last few years. Sure, the fire sucked. Yes, I wish it never happened. But it did and I can’t change it so I need to get over it.
I want to laugh, because everything he just said feels like a weight has been removed from my chest and I’m breathing for the first time in three years.
Everything feels different. Newer. Like the air is buzzing, reminding me that I’m lucky to be here, breathing it in.
So I do just that. I take in a deep breath and I throw my arms around him, burying my head in the crevice of his neck and shoulder.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “You asshole.”
I feel him laughing, so I lie back down on my pillow and allow him to wipe more tears away. He’s looking down at me like I’m a beautiful mess, and I’m not going to allow myself to question that. Because I am. I’m a beautiful fucking mess and he’s lucky to be on top of me right now.
I slide my hands to his chest and feel his heart pounding through his shirt. It’s pounding as hard as mine is.
We lock eyes and he doesn’t ask permission when he dips his head and brushes my mouth with his. “Fallon, I’m worked up so damn tight. I’m going to kiss you now and I’m not sorry.”
And then his lips claim mine. My head is swimming, my body feels like it’s floating and I can’t move my arms. But I don’t have to, because he raises my hands above my head and interlocks our fingers, pushing them into the mattress. His tongue slides against mine and there’s so much feeling in it, it’s as if he’s kissing me the same way he looks at me. From the inside out.
He slowly plants kisses down my neck, keeping my hands secured to the bed, not allowing me to touch him back while he explores my skin. God, I’ve missed him. I’ve missed the way I feel when I’m with him. I wish I could have this every day. Once a year isn’t near enough.
The pressure on my right hand disappears as he runs his fingers down the length of my arm, all the way to my waist. His mouth has returned to mine and he’s kissing me again as his hand slowly begins to crawl inside my shirt. Just feeling his fingertips on my skin reminds me of why I think about him every night when my head meets my pillow.
“I’m taking off your shirt,” he says.
I don’t even hesitate.
I don’t even hesitate?
He pulls the shirt over my head and tosses it behind him. His eyes fall to my breasts, covered with a black lace bra that I was convinced he wouldn’t see tonight. He smiles a devilish smile, running his fingertips over the lace. He cups my right breast in his hand, dragging his thumb over the fabric covering my nipple. The second he does that, I flinch, because I’ve read enough books to know that the next move is going to be touching me beneath the fabric. My entire body tenses because I don’t think I want him to remove my bra. I don’t want him to see all of me. No one has ever seen all of me.
“Baby,” he says, sliding his lips across my chest. “Relax, okay?”
I could try, but now I’m tense because he called me baby and not because he’s about to go where no one has gone before.
I’ve always found that term of endearment to be a little grating, but it so works when he says it.
I thread my fingers through the back of his hair and guide him toward my left breast, wondering how this went from zero to ten in a matter of seconds. Oh, God, he’s pulling down my bra strap. His mouth is right there, trailing over the curve of my breast and his fingers are pulling the material lower . . . lower . . . lower . . . gone.
I feel the air against my exposed breast, but my eyes are closed too tight to see the look on his face. But I can feel his lips as he kisses his way across my chest without hesitation, sliding his tongue against my skin, sucking and kissing and squeezing and . . . enjoying.
“Fallon.”
He wants me to look at him, but I’m much more comfortable with my eyes closed.
“Open your eyes, Fallon.”
I can do this.
I open my eyes and I’m staring up at the ceiling.
I can do this.
I slowly bring my gaze down until I’m looking him in the eyes. “You’re beautiful. Every inch of you is so beautiful.” He presses his lips between my breasts and then drags them slowly across my skin, running his tongue over my scars. I wait for him to make an excuse . . . to back away from me.
But he doesn’t. He grins up at me instead. “Are you okay? Can I keep going?”
My first inclination is to shake my head, because I shouldn’t want him to. Any time I’ve imagined this happening with a guy in the past, I picture myself with a perfect body and no scars. But here I am, staring down at Ben as he explores every part of me I’ve wished were different. And he’s actually enjoying it.
And . . . so am I.
I nod, and maybe moan again because holy shit he looks hot. The fact that I’m the reason for that heated look in his eyes makes me feel even more desirable than when I imagine being perfect. He kisses his way back up my neck until he’s hovering over me. He slides a hand to the nape of my neck and dips his head.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to slow myself down when I’m with you.”