“I’m here, sweetheart,” I murmur against her skin. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Slowly, her body turns toward me, her hand sliding over my side and down my back. Shivers run down my spine as I pull her closer to me. “I’m so glad you’re back, that you’re okay. I want you to be okay, Lay.”
Her face, especially her eyes, holds only sadness; I see it in their dark-brown depths.
“I will be,” she whispers. “I’ll be okay.” A stray tear runs down her cheek and I kiss it away.
“I love you so much.” My voice is barely audible, but I know she hears me from the way she closes her eyes.
Suddenly, she sits up straight. Her hands go to the hem of her shirt and then she pulls it up over her head. As she lies back down, she pushes herself against me. “Please, touch me, Ky.”
I press my lips to her collarbone and drift down to the hollow at the base of her throat.
She moans softly as she says, “Let me forget, Ky.”
I claim her mouth, and when she opens to me, I tease her with a slow stroke of my tongue against hers. A low growl rumbles from my chest as I lose myself in her—every kiss, every breath pulling me deeper. My hands trail down her back, sliding along the curve of her sides until they find her breasts. She exhales sharply, arching into my touch, pressing herself into my palms.
I brush my thumbs over her nipples, feeling her body respond, her head tipping back to offer me her neck.
I kiss the warm, flushed skin there, slow and reverent, tasting her. “I missed you,” I whisper against her throat, before tracing a path of kisses down to her chest.
I take one nipple into my mouth, gently sucking the sensitive peak, and her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging softly. When Imove to the other, a quiet moan escapes her lips—breathy, needy—and it’s all I can do not to lose control.
She’s as wrapped up in this as I am, and God, that makes it even better.
My hard-on presses against her thigh. Slowly, I let my mouth wander down, kissing a path between her breasts to her navel, where I dip my tongue in briefly and let her gasp.
“You’re so beautiful,” I sigh against the waistband of her pajama bottoms. “Lift your hips for me, baby.”
She does what I ask, and I ease the fabric down over her hips, slow and careful. But the second my fingers brush the inside of her thighs, she goes rigid.
Fuck.
I pause instantly, then lean down and press a soft kiss to her hipbone. I feel the tension bleed out of her by inches.
“Layne?” My voice is quiet, rough. “Tell me what you need. How do I make this okay?”
“Keep going,” she whispers, voice barely there.
I lift my head and look at her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, lips tight, a deep frown carved into her forehead.
“No.”
“Go on,” she says again—firmer, but her voice cracks, and panic edges in.
“Layne, no.” I sit up straight, take her arm gently and tug, needing her to see me. “Look at me.”
When her eyes finally open, it’s like she’s being haunted. Whatever she’s remembering—it’s tearing her up inside.
I cup her face in my hand, my thumb brushing over her cheek. “What did they do to you?” I ask, voice low and shaking. “Please, baby. Talk to me.”
I study her face, every flicker of emotion, every shadow. I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere until she knows that.
Her lashes flutter, and when she blinks, tears spill over. “We were hanging there…” Her voice is rough, like the words are tearing their way out.
I don’t say a thing—just nod, afraid that if I speak, she’ll shut down again.
“That guy…” she swallows hard, voice trembling. “He grabbed Norah. Said something about her breasts. How big they were. And after Jen… Vanderberg…”
