He frowns. "But I--"
"Stop it, Grey. Deserve me? You say it as if you have toearnme. I'm not bought on merit or your suffering, I'm yours because you areyouwhether you think you deserve me or not. I have never wanted anything like I want you. I didn't know I could miss somebody so much until you were gone. So please, please stop punishing yourself, because your pain hurts me too. I don't care about the town or how old you are or what anybody thinks. If I have to live without you for another day, I'm not going to survive. So if you want me, I'm here. All you have to do is--"
Before I register the movement, he's pulling me into his lap and his hand slides up my back, into my hair, cups the back of my head. My heart is banging and sighing and whispering yes, yes, yes as we hang onto each other like it's the only way we'll survive the storm. The weight of it settles between us, heavy with relief and fear and certainty all at once, tangled up andperfect. There's no space. No air. No gravity. Our lips crash in a desperate, painful release. A claiming, a prayer. I melt into him with a sound I've never made before, something between a sob and a moan, his mouth moving against mine like he's trying to consume me. Like he can't get close enough, can't getenough,and I kiss him back with everything I have, all that I am.
His tongue slides against mine, and I'm gone, begging him to take what he wants, take everything, and let me give. How long has he gone without knowing he's cherished? One of my hands fists his shirt, the other fisting his wet hair, holding onto him like he might disappear if I let him go. He groans, that deep, lovely sound vibrating through me, tightening my nipples. And he kisses me deeper, harder, like he's pouring a week of misery into it with every sweep of his tongue, every flex of his mouth, every suck and nip and blessed little sound.
I don't know how I got here, but I'm straddling his lap, and when I realize it, I break the kiss, panting, rising up to my knees. His arms lock around my waist, and he looks up at me, and I stroke his face, and we smile at each other breathlessly.
"Now that's settled, are you gonna fuck me or what?" I ask, panting.
He laughs and so do I, and then he growls, burying his face in my neck, sweeping me up to carry me to his bed.
And I hope that means his answer is yes.
CHAPTER 33
THIS IS HOW IT ENDS
GREY
The hallway has never felt so long.
Molly is soft and sweet in my arms, my face nestled in her neck as I carry her to bed. She smells like rain. Laughs like a song I thought I'd never hear again. The storm goes on. My heartbeat drums.
She's here. She's safe. She's mine.
A week of hell ended the moment she said she wants me. The rush is dizzying, coupled with the raw exposure from telling her my most painful secret. Everything I am, I have shaped around that fear. I've never said it out loud.
But she didn't run. She's here. In my arms, in my bed, wearingmyclothes. And even though she deserves better than me, she chose me anyway.
I'm never letting her go again.
Don't fuck this up.
She's still laughing, the sound so easy. And I'm grinning like an idiot. I can't help it.
Even after tonight, after the storm and the heaviness of my confession, she makes me laugh. She's made of a magic I've never seen before.
I toss her onto the bed gently, and she bounces, hair wild, a new squealing peal of laughter bubbling out of her. The sound does something to my chest, cracks it wider, and I stand at the foot of the bed, just watching her. Her laughter fades as she looks back up at me in the moonlight, her chest rising and falling, lips parted and eyes dark.
How did I get this lucky?
Neither of us moves, the air between us thick and charged. My heart hammers so hard, she must be able to hear it, even over the noise of the storm. She's reclined, propped on her elbows, painted in shadows of indigo. I want to see more of her, but I don't want to leave.
"Don't you fucking move," I manage, pulling off my shirt on my way to the linen closet where I keep candles for storms like these, just in case, and grab a few with shaking hands. She watches me as I set a few on the nightstand and a few more on my dresser on the other side of the room. Lighting them feels like it takes forever. But when I turn around, she's right where I left her, still watching me, though her glasses are now on the nightstand. She's wearing one of my old UT shirts with my number on it, and the sight tightens my throat.
I want her out of it just as bad as I never want her to never take it off.
I kneel on the bed, crawl toward her and she scoots back, not in retreat--to make room. I cage her in, hands on either side of her hips and look down at her. The rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. She looks so small in my shirt, the bare expanse of her thighs beneath the hem. She's open, trusting, without fear. Just desire. Just trust.
I spoke my ugliest truth aloud and she told me I was wrong, that my shame is misplaced. And I believed her. She sees me better than I see myself, and I don't know what to do with that, how to honor it, how to protect it. How do I hold something so precious without breaking it? She believes I'm good. Selfless, worth something.
She makes me want to believe it too.
My eyes skate across the details of her face. I've donethisbefore, too many times to count. But never when it meant something.
I move up her body, press her into the bed with my hips, viscerally aware of the feel of her against me, soft and warm, fitting against me like I was made for her. My hands shake when I reach for her face to cup her jaw, thumbs stroking her cheeks. My chest is so full, it hurts, tight and aching and threatening to split. I can't name what it is--it's too big, too much, too soon. If I name it, if I say it out loud, it'll be real. And if it's real, I can lose it.
