Wyatt looks at me, and I shake my head.Had. Past tense.
"He died when they were teenagers. Hung himself in the living room."
The living room we sat in earlier, teasing and laughing? My lungs drag in much-needed oxygen, and it isn't until this happens that I realize I was holding my breath.
Wyatt traces the label of the bottle in his lap. "As soon as my dad took over the HCC, he demolished the home he grew up in and rebuilt it into what you see today. He couldn't stand being in the same place where his brother took his own life. He hated what his brother did." Wyatt sips from the bottle again, and I reach out my hand, silently asking for it. I'd like to take it away, save him from himself, but I don't dare.
He hands it over, and I take a drink of the fiery liquid.If you can't beat them, join them.
Wyatt brushes a hand over his jeans, but I'm almost positive there isn't anything there to dust off. "He thinks I'm like him," Wyatt says, his tone soft but his voice hard. "His brother."
"No, Wyatt—"
"Yes, Jo. This is fact, not speculation."
Our gazes connect, and in his eyes I see anguish. I want to reach inside him, gather the emotion in my hands, and take it away. A single tear slips down his cheek and he jerks his head away. He coughs. "Would you mind going inside and getting us some water?" He's working so hard to push away his emotion, it might as well be a physical act.
I do as he asks, opening up cupboards in his kitchen until I find the glasses. He keeps a pitcher of filtered water in his fridge, and I'm pouring it when I hear the back door open.
When he grips my hip bone, I set down the pitcher.
When he gathers my hair over one shoulder and drags his lips across the back of my neck, I close my eyes.
He turns me around so I'm facing him. His lips meet mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth urgently, and I taste the sting of whiskey. His hands are on either side of my face, holding me in place.
I recognize this.
Two years ago, he kissed me this way. In that hallway outside the shop, this same kiss is what started it all.
One hand drifts away from my face. A rush of air meets my thighs as his hand dips under my dress. He pushes the fabric until it gathers around my hips. I exhale sharply into his mouth when he lifts me up and sets me down on the counter.
He presses kisses to my neck, my collarbone, the top swell of my breasts. I push the straps of the dress off my shoulders, giving the dress enough slack so Wyatt can pull down the front. He flips the cups of my bra and lowers his mouth to me.
I work at his jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing them down, first with my hands and then with my feet, until he can step from them himself. He wraps an arm around my waist and hauls me roughly to the edge of the counter. He slides my underwear down my legs and I lean back on my palms, steadying myself. His eyes are on mine, hooded and dark, as he drags himself along me.
"You are so beautiful, Jo," he says, taking his time when all I want is for him to slip inside me.
I tip my head to the ceiling and take a deep breath. "You're just saying that because you want to get laid."
He laughs and fills me at the same time. His laughter dies quickly, replaced by primal need, a pleasured exhale, the sound of two bodies coming together.
The back of my head hits the cabinet behind me, and he slips his hand between me and the cabinet so that I bump him instead. His other hand stays locked on my hip, and his gaze doesn't stray from mine.
What I see in his eyes rips me from the moment. Soft sadness, reluctant acceptance, and enduring hurt. I have to look harder to see these things, past the desire he so clearly feels for me.
I've seen this exact look before. I recognized the way he kissed me, and I recognize the way he fucks me.
And just like that night, I allow it. I want to be the person Wyatt seeks refuge in. He's asking for me to soothe him now.
He was asking me to soothe him then, I just didn't know it.
I was there tonight. I saw how he ended up here. Which begs the question: What happened two years ago that wounded him so?
Wyatt's hand leaves my hip, reaches between my legs, and he presses his lips to mine so that when I come he can swallow my moans. He finishes just after me, shaking and then stilling. He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "I love you," he murmurs against me.
We're still connected, so I sit up taller, wrapping my arms around him in a hug. "I love you too, Wyatt."
25
