“Just what?”
“Nothing.”
That pisses me off. I walk around the bed and lie down beside her, leaning back against the headboard. I hook my fingers under her chin and pull her closer until she’s inches from my face. Her eyes are so wide they look like they might pop right out of their sockets.
“Tell me.”
She says nothing.
“Tell me.” I pull her even closer. I’m not aggressive by nature, but this girl is pushing me to the edge with all this hiding.
“In high school,” she says quietly, staring at the wall, “people called me a slut because I kissed someone behind the bleachers.” She swallows and keeps going. “Then in college, a football player said I slept with him. He told everyone it was the worst sex of his life.”
My jaw tightens as she shakes her head.
“I didn’t even sleep with him,” she says, voice sharper now. “I just made out with him at a party. But the entire athletic department believed him.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Then more guys jumped on the train, saying that I slept with them too.”
She pauses, her hands twisting together. I can see the hurt written all over her face.
“It got so bad I couldn’t even focus. There were so many jokes going around that, after I got injured, I quit the cross-country team.”
I can hear the defeat in her voice and it’s gutting me.
“I know I should’ve stood up for myself, but once some of the staff started making comments, I needed to quit for my own sanity.”
What the fuck.
“No one stood up for you?” I ask, my voice rough. I hate how much I need the answer to be yes.
“Some girls tried,” she says softly, finally looking at me. “But I told them to save it. I didn’t want them to get taunted and ridiculed like I did.”
I exhale slowly, forcing my tone to stay calm. “Vanessa, did you tell Kevin or Lucy?”
“No. They pressed me on why I quit the team. I just kept telling them it was the injury until they finally gave up,” she says softly, looking back down.
“Vanessa,” I say quietly.
She looks up at me.
“Kindly, shut up so I can kiss you.”
Her brows knit together in confusion, her lips parting like she’s about to argue. She doesn’t get the chance. I cup her face and press my mouth to hers, kissing her hard, deliberately, giving her no space to think. Just feel. I want that memory gone for even a second.
Her lips are soft and warm, just like they were a few hours ago. She melts into it, and I kiss her until I feel the tension leave her body.
I pull back just enough to speak. “I’m going to make you forget all of the bullshit they did and said to you,” I tell her quietly. “And I don’t plan on this being a one-time thing.”
She stares at me, stunned, like no one has ever said something like that to her before.
I rub her jaw with my thumb and lean in to kiss her again, slower this time, memorizing every curve and soft edge of her lips. I trail my mouth down her neck, then lower, pressing kisses along her collarbone and the upper part of her chest.
I look up at her. “Can I take off your sweater?”
She bites her lip and nods. She clearly likes it when I ask. I like control, but I also like giving respect to someone who deserves it.
I hook my fingers into the hem of her light purple sweater and pull it up and over her head, tossing it aside. She’s wearing a pink lace bra, the color brighter against the warm glow of her skin. Shit. The lace is barely enough to hold her in, teasing more than holding.
A soft groan slips from my throat.
