Page 122 of The Ache That Stayed

Disgusting.

My throat tightened, breath turning uneven as the words sank in—familiar, cruel, impossible to shut out.

You don’t get to have anything good. Not love. Not loyalty. Not a life like that. You ruin it. You always do.

My thoughts were interrupted as I felt him behind me. The air changed, thickened, pulled tighter around me. My shoulders tensed instinctively, but I didn’t turn. His hand ran down my back to my hips, grip iron, pulling me flush to the heat of him, as he kissed my neck. I didn’t move away.

He picked up the body wash and started scrubbing my shoulders. My body softened into his touch before I could stop it, answering him in ways my mind was still desperately trying to resist.

His hands moved over me, my sides, my breasts, cupping them, brushing over them once before moving lower. Till his hands found my waist. His touch moved over the same skin I’d nearly scrubbed raw moments ago—gentler than I deserved. As though he was trying to soothe a sin I had been trying to punish.

And then he turned me slowly, until I was facing him. The water hit my back, sliding down my spine in slow rivulets, but all I could feel was him—close, too aware of every inch of me standing exposed in front of him.

My arms came up instinctively, a weak attempt to shield myself. He caught my wrist before I could, lowering them.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough, threaded with desire and smug satisfaction. “You don’t get shy now. Not after I just had my hands and mouth all over you.”

Heat rushed up my spine, sharp and immediate, clashing with the warmth of the water.

“That’s not—” I started, but the words fell apart before I could finish them.

Because what exactly was it? What was this? I didn’t have a name for it.

“You think I don’t know what you look like?” His gaze dragged over me, slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. “What you feel like? What you taste like?”

A ragged breath caught in my throat. This was supposed to feel wrong. But instead, the tight knot in my chest just eased, a strange warmth settling over me. And for some reason, my instincts no longer saw him as someone to hide from.

He washed me without urgency, demanding nothing nor proving a point as though this were completely normal. Like we hadn’t just crossed a line that neither of us could come back from.

My shoulders dropped before I could stop them. A small betrayal, one I didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. His hand slid up again, resting at my neck, his fingers settling there, pressing against my pulse.

“You do this thing,” he said. “When you start thinking too much… your breathing changes.”

My chest tightened.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically, even though my voice came out softer than I intended.

“Liar.”

Silence stretched between us, filled only by the sound of water hitting tile and the sound of my pulse hammering against his fingers. He looked at me with quiet certainty in his eyes as if he had already decided I was his. It should’ve terrified me, instead, I couldn’t look away.

He leaned in slowly this time, like he was giving me space to move, to stop him, to say no. His mouth brushed mine—light, almost hesitant, before deepening the kiss. Like he was learning me instead of taking me. And that undid me in ways lust never could. My lips parted on instinct, and I kissed him back.

He pressed closer, his rigid heat hard against my midsection. My hands found his hair, pulling him closer as I moved against him without thinking, driven by a shameless, needy urge.

I was just a body chasing friction, chasing him. I was nothing but hunger wrapped in skin. Control was gone. Dignity and restraint were meaningless. And in that moment, I hated how easily I gave in.

He pulled back first. Breath uneven. Eyes darker than before—but controlled.

“I’ll heat the soup,” he said, pretending as though we hadn’t just been standing there, suspended in an unnamed tension.

It was a blatant denial of how everything had just shifted between us again.

The door slid open. And then he was gone. The water kept running. But the space felt colder without him in it. I stayed a moment longer, delaying the inevitable. Because the moment I would step out, everything would come rushing back. Everything would become too real.

I found him in the kitchen. He’d laid out two bowls and was cutting some bread. A few hours ago, he’d had me falling apart on that same counter. Like I was his last meal.

I’d been consumed so thoroughly the memory alone made my body react—nipples tightening under the fabric.