There’s an edge about him and scars on his torso and by his eye that weren’t there before. If either of us has demons, it’s him, not me. I don’t want him to be my catharsis any more than I want to be his. I think I just want what I always have—to know all of him. And I get the feeling, he’s not willing to be that naked. Frankly, I don’t know if I am either.
“I don’t know if we should,” I gasp just as his lips are inches away from mine again.
“What’s the matter?” Straightening up, he smirks, trailing a hand down his chest before stopping at the button on his jeans and popping it open. “Not as good as you remember?” he asks like a challenge, and he’s daring me to lie.
There’s a jagged horizontal scar above his right hip and fewer divots defining his abs. He’s thicker and softer, but I stillwouldn’t usesoftas a word to describe him. There’s justmoreof him, and I could never not like more of Chris. My head shakes dumbly as the sound of his zipper lowering seems to fill the room. I realize my rattling skull might have been misread when his smile falters, so I swallow and answer honestly.
“Better.”
He snorts as though he doesn’t believe me, but then smirks again. “Youlikewhat you see?”
It sounds like another challenge, not delivered with the same confidence I remember. Did I only imagine it back then, or was he just as vulnerable as he appears now, and I didn’t see it?
I resist my instinct to answer his question, too terrified to encourage him with more truths. His gaze rakes down my body, and his expression softens to something more innocent that makes me want to hug him.
“Ido,” he whispers as though he’s confessing a secret.
Reaching out, he slides his hand along my jaw. His palm is just as rough as it used to be, but warm and reverent. I close my eyes, pulled under by the heady lure of it, and let out a rush of air as he traces my lower lip with his thumb. Leaning in, his forehead presses against mine.
“You’re still so fucking sexy.”
The surprising whispered words ghost my lips. I close the space without thinking, capturing his mouth to thank it. With each slant, he lets out noises that sound like grateful sighs. His hands go to my hips, pulling them against his and punching my gut with arousal. However, a flurry of questions mutes it to a dull roar.
He thought I was sexy all those years ago? What else did he think? And why does he think so now? I’m caught in a snare, trying to connect the past to the present.
These probably aren’t the things you’re supposed to think about for one night of casual sex. I could follow him into hisbedroom and let him fill me the way he used to, cry out his name, ball the sheets in my hand as he writhes against me. I could go home with a pleasant feeling in my ass and the high from an orgasm. I could, but I’m me. And this is Chris. I’d want more.
Because this is what I do. Every freaking time. I make out with someone and then end up in a relationship without even dating. I put a roof on before I’ve even built a foundation.
Is Chris capable of dating now—or even willing to? If there’s a remote possibility that’s something he’s interested in, I’m not about to fuck it up with fucking. I want to know who he is now first. I want to build four solid walls so the ceiling doesn’t come crashing down on me. And if he has sweet things to say, I want to hear them without alcohol on his breath.
“I have a date next week,” I blurt when he abandons my mouth to suck on my neck.
“Cancel it. I’ll make sure you won’t be able to walk,” he purrs, squeezing my ass and nibbling at the base of my throat.
Shivers run up my spine even as I laugh breathlessly. Drawing the tip of his nose along the cord in my neck, he moves his lips across my jaw as his hand snakes under my shirt and up my back.
I think he’s going to kiss me again, even though I exaggerated about calling my upcoming meet-up with Miles a date. I don’t want it to be a date, and I want Chris to stop being so damn magnetic.
I’m unbelievable. He’s finally kissed me with abandon, the way I always dreamed he would, and I want him to stop. I can’t believe I’m going to do this, but given his state and the mess that my head is in, I know it’s the right decision.
Pressing my hand to his chest, I tilt my head away, heart hammering from two opposing wants.
“And then what?”
His hand freezes inside my shirt, and he draws back slowly. I’m not sure who’s more shocked by my question.
“We’ve done this before,” I remind him, blushing at how it sounds like I don’t cherish those wonderful memories. “I just… I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Realization dawns in his eyes, which don’t look the least bit glassy now that I’m so close and staring right into them. I don’t think he’s drunk at all. Buzzed maybe, but my level-three alarm looks like it just killed that.
Releasing me, he steps back. Gone is the softness in his expression and even that edginess, completely shuttered. He gives a single nod, turns away, and pats his leg. Gale hops off the couch, races over, and follows him.
“Thanks for the ride.”
I scramble for words to call out, some way to segue into what I wanted to say next. I still don’t even have his number. As he ambles down a darkened hallway, I feel like an utter fool for numerous reasons. He’s not swaying because of alcohol. That’s just how he walks now, painfully rigid and stiff-jointed, his torso leaning to the right from a misaligned spine. Does that mean he really wanted me? With a clear mind? As Chris of the present?
The well of hope that rises in my chest drains as quickly as it burbled. I just shot him down, and I don’t currently possess the words to figure out how to make him understand why.
