Annie is still looking at me, her gaze holding mine, and I feel the hard thump of my heart against my ribs. We’re so close—a hand’s breadth away from each other, and sitting in a bed, all alone in a cabin far from anyone else. That reality strikes me in the same moment that she shifts closer to me, and I tense, knowing I should get up.
I should get off this bed. I should put space between us. There’s something in her face, a yearning that I’ve been trying not to remember for more than a decade, and it’s going to undo me if I don’t put a stop to this.
It’ll undo us both.
"Annie." Her name comes out rougher than I intended, a warning and a plea all at once.
But she's not listening. She's moving closer, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. I can feel it hammering against her palm, betraying every emotion I've tried to keep locked away.
“You left me,” she says softly, her voice the barest hint of a whisper. “When we were eighteen. You left me.”
“Annie.” My voice is choked now when I say her name, the touch of her hand on my chest, even through my shirt, burning me to ash. “It wasn’t that simple. You know?—”
“But you’re here now,” she whispers, as if I hadn’t even spoken.
And then she leans forward, and her mouth touches mine, and it’s as if eleven years disappear with the first, singular brush of her lips.
14
ELIO
Her mouth on mine, gentle as it is, feels like a brand. Every part of my body comes alive at once, my skin aching for her hands, my cock so hard that it hurts, the blood rushing to my suddenly stiff erection so fast that it makes me dizzy. I’ve never gotten aroused so quickly in my life. She’s not wearing perfume; all I can smell is the sweet scent of her skin, and the desire to spill her back onto the bed and devour her is so powerful that it takes every last shred of self-control that I have to keep from doing exactly that.
She brushes her lips against mine again, softly. Her mouth is closed and so is mine, but I couldn’t be more turned on if we were devouring each other with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. I reach down to adjust myself, and Annie takes in a small, sharp breath that I can feel against my lips, her head tilting as she presses her mouth to mine more firmly.
Christ. I want to bury my hands in her hair, slide my tongue over the seam of her lips, kiss her until I hear her moan for me again. It takes everything in me to pull my hand away from my aching cock, my hands fisting in the duvet on either side of me to keep from touching her, too.
She seems to realize I’m just letting her kiss me, instead of pushing it further. I expect her to pull away, to be hurt, to have to explain that I can’t let this go further when she’s here because she’s been assaulted, that I can’t take advantage of her fragility right now, that even that one kiss could complicate things so much more than they already are.
But she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she rests her forehead against mine, her breathing ragged, her hand still pressed against my chest. The space between us crackles with eleven years of suppressed desire, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to give in to it.
I can feel her hand trembling against my chest, see the quick rise and fall of her breathing. I don’t think this is just about us, about her wanting me—even if it is, it’s more about erasing what happened to her, about replacing bad memories with good ones, about finding comfort in someone familiar when everything else feels foreign and dangerous.
And as much as I want her—Christ, as much as I've always wanted her—I can't be that for her. Not like this. Not when she's broken and desperate for the first safe harbor she can find.
"Annie," I say softly, gently wrapping my hand around hers and moving it away from my chest. "You're not thinking clearly."
Her eyes snap open, fiery with a sudden flash of anger, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of the girl who used to challenge me at every turn, who never backed down from an argument even when she was clearly outmatched.
"Don't," she says, her voice low and fierce. "Don't you dare tell me what I'm thinking or feeling."
"You've been through hell," I continue, even as every cell in my body screams for me to let this happen. "You're traumatized, you're scared, and you're looking for a way to make it stop hurting. But this—" I gesture between us, "—this isn't the answer."
"How do you know what the answer is?" she demands, pulling away suddenly and putting space between us. Tears are glimmering in her eyes, and I hate that I had something to do with putting them there. "How do you know what I need?"
"Because I know you." The words come out rougher than I intended, my own desire still throbbing through me like a second pulse. I want to get off the bed, to put myself somewhere that we can have this discussion with a clearer head, but I don’t dare stand up right now. Annie will seeexactlywhat she does to me if I do.
I suck in a heavy breath, trying to find some equilibrium. "I know that if we do this now, while you're like this, you'll regret it. And I can't live with being something you regret."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war playing out behind her eyes—hurt and anger and desire all battling for dominance. Finally, the fight goes out of her, and she slumps back against the headboard, suddenly looking very young and very lost.
She looks eighteen again, when I walked away from her that night. The memory hurts, a slice of pain through the already bruised muscle of my heart.
"You're right," she whispers, and the defeat in her voice makes my chest ache. "I'm sorry. I just… I wanted to feel something else. I wanted—" She breaks off, wrapping her arms around her knees like she's trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will, as she pulls them up to her chest again.
“Come on.” I stand up, a little more decent now. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make us something to eat. You probably haven’t eaten since dinner last night, have you?”
Annie shakes her head.
