He nods, eyes still closed.
I take in the sight of him. Cum and saliva cover his chin. His lips are swollen, cheeks flushed.
My heart thumps a little harder and I smile widely. My husband is fucking wrecked. And so goddamn hot.
Oh, no.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I . . . I like him. A lot. More than a lot.
Time to clean up, and to stop those thoughts dead in their tracks because this isn’t a real marriage. It’s to protect Connor from his father. Nothing more.
I get off the bed and head to the bathroom. A groan sounds behind me. Connor’s up and following. I grab a clean washcloth and run it under the warm water, then wring it out and hand it to him.
He takes it and is about to clean himself when I grab his wrist. He might be my temporary husband, but everything we’ve done . . . maybe . . .
Five things I see. Towels. A bar of soap. My toothbrush. Body lotion.Connor.
“Ryan?”
Taking a deep breath, I bring his hand and the washcloth to my chest, wiping some of his cum. My eyes close as I exhale for a count of five. “Clean me. Just . . . just my chest.”
“Just your chest.” He goes slow, each swipe like static on my skin—not bad, justthere.
But the static gets stronger, becomes too much. And he's being so fucking careful I want to scream. Then the washcloth—and his touch—are gone.
I open my eyes, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. His eyes search my face, a small crease between his brows.
Why?
Why do I have to be like this? Why can’t I just enjoy Connor’s hands on my body?
My eyes grow wet, a tear falling down my cheek. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
Connor tosses the washcloth onto the counter, then raises up on his tiptoes, kissing me softly. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
But I don't want tojustbe okay anymore.
“I’m going to take a shower first, then when you’re done, we can read. Okay?”
I nod, grab the washcloth, then finish cleaning myself, rubbing harder than necessary, while he steps into the shower.
When we get back to campus, I'm calling the counseling center.
Not for him. But for myself.
Because I'm tired of my body winning, tired of those fuckers from the group home still having power over me.
I want to stop freezing when my husband touches me. Want to stop letting my past dictate my life.
And most of all . . . I want to stop being afraid of wanting.
Chapter 21
Connor
Third period, and we're up by one. We would’ve been up by three if Boston College’s goalie wasn't standing on his fucking head tonight. Time to put another one in net. We need a buffer.
