I guide her to the edge of the bed and sit down, pulling her with me. She curls into my side without hesitation. Her head rests against my shoulder, as her body trembles from more than just the cold.
“I don’t know how to talk to them anymore,” she says into my chest. “It feels so distant now between the girls and me.”
“You don’t owe anyone a fucking play-by-play,” I mutter against the top of her head. “You don’t have to narrate your trauma so they feel included.”
She exhales a shaky breath that could be a laugh, and pulls back slightly, enough to glance up at me. And that is my mistake, because now I can see her properly.
Her lashes are still damp. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair is a mess from my hands. And her lips...
Fuck.
Her lips are slightly parted. Soft. Pink. Still trembling faintly.
My gaze drops there without permission.
Words spill out of her, broken and rushed. Something about the house being too quiet. About sitting in her dad’s chair and feeling as if the walls were closing in. About the fridge being full but empty at the same time. But I hear none of it, because all I can see is her mouth.
All I can think about is the way it felt under mine last time. The way she tasted. The way she leaned into me as if she trusted me with something I have no business holding.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Me.
She is breaking down in my trailer, and all I want is to lose myself in her again.
“I just... I don’t fit in there right now,” she says, eyes searching mine. “It seems like they’re moving forward and I’m stuck.”
Stuck.
My thumb brushes lightly along her jaw without me thinking.
“You’re not stuck,” I say.
Her gaze flickers to my mouth for a brief moment before snapping back to my eyes.
That small movement affects me more than any frantic girl grinding against me in a bathroom stall ever has. Because this isn’t about performance. It’s not a game. This is a choice.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says softly.
And there it is. Not Sam. Not Aubrey.
She chose me.
My cock stirs at the thought, and I hate that my body reacts to something that should be emotional. My hand slides from her jaw to the side of her neck.
“I can’t stop thinking,” she whispers.
My thumb presses gently at the base of her throat. I can detect her pulse racing beneath my skin.
“I need to stop thinking,” she adds.
There it is. The same thing I pursue every time I hook up with someone. Silence. Escape.
I stare at her for a long second, not because I’m hesitating, but because I know exactly what I am about to do.
Her lips are slightly parted. Soft. Kissed once before and somehow different now.
I lean in and kiss her. Not fast. Not rough. I press my mouth to hers slowly, as if I need to feel every second of it.
She exhales into the kiss, and it hits me hard. Her fingers tighten on the front of my hoodie, and she pulls me closer without hesitation. I deepen the kiss—slower but rougher around the edges—my mouth claiming hers with purpose. My cock is already hard, and I let a little of that heat bleed into how I kiss her. Just enough to show I’m not some soft, safe option. I kiss her like I mean it.
