He swallowed hard, rubbing his thighs like the truth had to be pulled from his skin. "It's an ugly story," he said, not meeting her eyes. "And it starts with my mom… do you want to… hear it?"
She moved closer, gently, giving him the space to back away if he needed it.
"Of course, I do," she said. "Tell me."
He took a breath, released it slowly, and his voice was compressed, low, aching. He told her about his father’s death when he was ten, the way his mom reacted, the way she lied to him when he knew she was grieving, something he didn’t know how to handle. All he wanted was truth and something real from her. The lying continued over the years, then he’d found the picture, the devastating lie, the betrayal that gutted him in his own kitchen. How he’d spent years cherishing a truth that turned out to be fabricated. His voice was steady, until it cracked at the part about the bruises. His eyes stayed on the floor when he admitted how helpless he’d felt, how enraged he was now knowing who his real father was, and what that man had done. “I was lost.”
She listened, motionless except for the way her chest lifted, slowly, like she was trying not to break.
When he paused, she slipped her arm across his shoulders, fingers moving to his nape, massaging gently. His hair was soft against her skin, like silk warmed in firelight. Her hand drifted lower, settling over the rise of his shoulder.
Then came Dusty's Roadhouse.
He stuttered through it, the words jagged and thick. The hollow in his voice was deeper than anything he’d shared. She could see the memory living in his eyes, dark and full of shame. It wasn’t just about what he’d done. It was what it meant. What it revealed about him. Or what he feared it revealed.
When he finished, he turned toward her. That stoic sniper face cracked open and vulnerable in a way that broke her in two.
"I’ll never treat you like that," he said, voice low. “But I need to get my mind around being with you. After all the women I fucked, that’s not going to happen here.”
She smiled faintly, teasing gently. He was so damn adorable the way he vowed to protect her. “The fucking?”
He blew out a breath and shook his head. “Goddammit, Blair. You know what I mean.”
She did, and she loved him for the effort he was making, even as he fought himself tooth and nail.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands locked tight like they were the only thing holding him together.
Blair didn’t speak right away. She didn’t rush to fill the silence. Her chest tightened. Underneath all that, beneath the scars and the control, was someone who had never once stopped wanting to be good.
He just didn’t know how to believe he already was.
She reached for him again, her hand settling against the curve of his neck, thumb stroking over the pulse hammering there. His skin was warm, a little rough from stubble, and beneath it she felt the strain in every tendon. Still holding on. Still fighting.
But he didn’t pull away. He let her touch him. That meant everything.
She pressed her mouth to his temple. Stayed there for a beat longer than necessary. Letting him feel what words couldn’t carry yet. He took a shuddering breath, then exhaled slowly.
“You don’t have to fight alone,” she whispered.
He made a soft sound as if she’d punched him in the gut and rose. “Fuck me,” he swore softly. “I’m going to die right the fuck here.”
She stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to see the restraint tighten in the corners of his mouth.
He looked down at her, tilted his head. That slow, almost imperceptible lean toward her. His body shifted, his mouth hovered over hers. Not touching. Not quite. But the energy crackled between them like fire threatening to catch. Her breath stopped. Her body stilled. Everything in her reached toward him.
“It’s safer this way,” he whispered.
“Go,” she murmured not bothering to hide the heat in her. “Before I do something that I can’t control,”
Then he groaned, soft, wrecked, and stepped away like it cost him everything.
She let him go. Not because she wanted to. Because she respected the man he was trying to become.
He stripped down to bare skin and got into the bed, pulling the sheet over him. His body was burning up, a fever of his own making. Sweat dampened his chest, tracing paths over his pecs, beading on his brow. His breath was ragged, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a defeated puff of air. And his cock… fuck, his cock was throbbing so hard it felt like a punishment, a relentless, aching pulse against his lower abdomen. The ache was a physical torment, but it was nothing compared to the one in his chest.
His own nipples were tight, sensitive points that chafed against the sheets, a phantom echo of her hands on him, a frustrating reminder of the pleasure he was denying himself. He kicked the sheets off and lay there, exposed and raw in the dark. He couldn't cool off. Couldn't shut down. Couldn't stop the goddamn loop in his head of taking her like an animal, of burying himself so deep inside her, he forgot his own name, exactly like he promised himself he wouldn't.
But the way she touched him, the way she trusted him with her tender eyes and her open heart, her soft mouth, the way she’d moaned into his kiss like she was starving for him, the way her hips had rocked against him like she couldn’t help it pushed him over an edge he’d been walking since he’d laid eyes on her. The shame burned right alongside the desire, a sick, twisted cocktail. He was ashamed of his want, ashamed of the violent, primal need to possess her, and he was ashamed of the shame itself. He was a man at war with his own nature, and the battlefield was his own body, aching and burning for a woman he was terrified he would debase, use. He choked against that thought, his chest so heavy, he couldn’t breathe.
