The air leaves the room.
He is solid. So incredibly solid. His heat soaks through my thin T-shirt. I feel his thundering heart against my shoulder. It’s galloping. Too fast for a man who considers himself a friend. And why is my own pulse racing to match his?
My gaze lifts.
Scottie is staring right back down at me. His mossy eyes are dark and wide. He doesn’t let go. His thumb presses into my hip bone. The ground tilts beneath my feet, a stage trapdoor swinging open, and I snatch a fistful of his shirt because my knees are giving in.
Don’t do it, my brain screams. It’s too soon. It’s complicated. There’s no going back. You might lose him.
Do it, my body whispers. He is right there.
I push up onto my toes in a perfect relevé, reaching up, threading my fingers through the soft hair at the back of his neck, and I pull him down.
He resists for a breath – a visible second of war behind his eyes – and then he breaks.
Scottie’s mouth captures mine. I brace for the rugby player, for the impact, but his lips are devastatingly gentle. He kisses me with reverence, holding me as if I were made of air. My pulse thrashes in my stomach, at the base of my neck, on the root of my tongue.
I answer with my whole self and lean in. A low sound breaks from his throat, a dark rumble against my lips, and he yanks me against him, crushing the space between us until I feel nothing but the wild slam of his heart against mine.
My feet don’t touch the ground anymore.
His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss until I’m dizzy with the addictive taste of him. His stubble grazes my chin, the friction stinging and real. For the first time in forever, I’m fire and blood.
Alive.
Then, just as suddenly, he rips himself away and breaks the seal, staggering back until he bumps into the dishwasher, fighting for air.
‘No. No. I can’t… Fuck.’ He won’t meet my eyes.
‘Scottie…’ My lips are burning.
‘I can’t do that to you.’ He sounds genuinely horrified. ‘I can’t be that man. You’re vulnerable, Ava. You’re bleeding inside. And I can’t be… I’m not going to be the bandage that happens to stick to the wound. This isn’t fair to either of us.’
My skin is on fire, prickling with a heat that has nowhere to go. ‘I’m not a patient. And I’m not asking for a bandage.’ And that’s the thing. I don’t want a protector. I want him to stop being a hero and just be a man.
‘Go to bed. Please, Ava…go to bed.’ He turns and walks out of the kitchen. Not to his room. To the back door. I hear it open, then close.
I’m left standing in the quiet of the kitchen, and my heart is hammering so hard it hurts. I clutch at my own shoulders to make up for the loss of his warmth, but the chill is seeping back in.
It’s only Friday night. How are we going to survive until Monday?
Chapter 17
Scottie
I wake up hard. Painfully so.
My bedroom is Baltic. The radiator under the window conked out years ago, so the early morning air bites. Last night’s kitchen fallout rips through my mind on a relentless loop.
That kiss.
Ava’s mouth, open and wet against mine. The greedy slide of her little tongue. I forced myself to pull away, but my blood was begging me to lift her onto the table, slot myself between her thighs, and see what she’d let me do.
I’ve no idea what the hell triggered it, but I do know that’s not how friends act. Certainly not when they’re sober.
I’m supposed to be her safe harbour. Instead, here I am replaying the way her hips tilted up into mine, the ragged little sound she made when I pulled her in.
You selfish prick. She came to you for safety.
