Page 115 of Break Me

He lowers me onto the mattress, never letting more than a breath separate us. His hands find the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head in one easy motion before dropping it somewhere on the floor without a second thought. The lamplight traces the dark ink across his shoulders and the planes of his chest as he looks down at me.

The way he's looking at me steals the air from my lungs.

He leans in again, his forehead brushing mine before his lips find my jaw, then the curve of my neck. His touch is patient, but there's a quiet urgency beneath it, like he's done holding back.

I arch into him, wanting more. Wanting all of it.

And then it hits in a sudden, overwhelming wave. Heat rises fast up my throat, and I stiffen beneath him.

“Raven?” he says immediately, lifting his head.

“Move.” I push at his chest, sitting up too quickly. The room tilts. “I’m—” I swallow hard. “I need⁠—”

The rest doesn’t come.

I scramble off the bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I drop to my knees in front of the toilet. The nausea hits hard and fast. There’s no stopping it.

Behind me, I hear him move. Fast. The bedroom door hitting the wall.

“Raven.”

I can’t answer.

Another wave hits, and I grip the porcelain, my body trembling as I’m sick.

Sam’s down beside me instantly. One hand presses steadily between my shoulders. The other gathers my hair, pulling it back, keeping it out of my face.

“I’ve got you,” he says, voice low and calm.

The wave crests and fades almost as quickly as it came, leaving me shaky and breathless. I breathe through it the best I can. My throat is burning, and my eyes are watering.

He stays beside me without flinching or hesitating. When it finally eases, I sag back on my heels, exhausted. Sam keeps his hand at my back, his thumb moving in slow circles.

His eyes search mine. "Tell me what you need."

I shake my head. "I don't know. I didn't expect that."

“Do you still feel sick?”

“A little.”

“Alright.” His voice is steady. “Stay there a second.”

He reaches for a washcloth, wets it, and presses the cool fabric gently to the back of my neck.

The contrast makes me shiver.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His hand stills. “For what?”

“For ruining⁠—”

“Don’t.” His tone is firm now, but not harsh. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

Silence settles between us.

“You think it’s⁠—”