She chews on the inside of her mouth.
“I will always wait for you, Lily. If you want to party, that’s absolutely fine. I’ll make up for it the next morning. If we’re out and you need me before you get drunk, I’ll find somewhere to make sure you’re full of me.”
She blinks. “What, you would have fucked me in the club bathrooms?”
“Perhaps not the bathrooms. I’d have got us a private room. Then, I’d leave my cum dripping down your thighs, so you’d feel me there all night.”
“You’re filthy, Drago.”
I bite my lip. “Yeah, for you I am. I’m losing my mind over you, Lily.”
She slips her hand from her panties and cups my cheek, her scent driving me insane.
“You did that on purpose,” I tease, trying to bite back a grin.
She gives me a wicked grin. “Yeah. Kind of. What are you going to do about it?” She teases.
“You’ll find out in the morning,” I growl.
She shivers against me, my warning only spurring her on. Which I fucking love.
Her words from earlier come crashing back. How incredible it was to hear her say I love you. The fucking ache in my chest when she quickly retracted her statement.
I know she feels this, too.
And I won’t be waiting six long months to tell her what I know in my heart.
That I belong to Lily.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Lily
We cuddle in silence, neither of us quite ready to sleep. My mind is racing, wanting to give him more of myself.
“You know,” I start, then stop myself, the words catching in my throat. “You’re the first guy since…”
My voice trails off. The room feels too quiet. Too aware.
His eyebrow lifts, but the color drains from his face, like his body already knows what his mind is about to hear.
Shit. I shouldn’t do this now. I shouldn’t open this door. Once it’s open, I don’t know how to close it again. My therapist would say I’m sabotaging something good. That I’m handing him the sharpest part of myself and daring him to decide whether I’m still worth it.
But this doesn’t feel like sabotage. It feels like truth clawing its way out of me, demanding to be seen. Maybe the champagne has helped loosen my anxiety.
“Since?” he asks gently, but his hand tightens on my thigh, like he’s bracing for impact.
I sit up, forcing my lungs to work, my heart slamming so hard it feels like it might give me away before my words do.
“A few years ago,” I say. “After my final ballet show.”
My chest aches just saying that much. Ballet had been everything. My body. My purpose. My escape.
“There was a guy,” I continue. “He?—”
I can’t look at Drago when I say it. Instead, I trace the ink on his forearm, grounding myself in something real, something solid. The lines of him. The proof that I’m not alone right now.
“I don’t know if I can say all of it,” I admit. “But he broke into my dressing room and locked the door. Before I could scream, he covered my mouth.”
