I hold my tears back. He needs me to be strong, and I need him to be okay. We can do this. “You can’t … love me?”
I tense all my muscles so his answer can’t hurt me.
“Cassie, it doesn’t matter how I feel about you. I can’t be what you need.”
“You can. You are.”
“How can you say that?” he says, frustration making his voice hard. “I keep proving you wrong, time and again. You deserve someone else.”
“I don’t want anyone else. But … if you do…”
He shakes his head. “You know that’s bullshit.”
“I don’t understand. So, you want me, but don’t love me?” My voice cracks, and I hate how pathetic I sound.
His expression melts from anxiety into pity. I hate that look. He sees how desperate I am for him to tell me I’m wrong.
“You think I don’t love you?” he says as he steps away from the wall and draws up to his full height. “If I didn’t, do you think I’d be in hell right now? You think I like feeling like this? Like pushing you away isn’t ripping out parts of me? Fuck, Cassie, I know the right thing to do is to leave you alone. But when I think about doing that, it…” He grips his chest. “It fucking hurts. And I’m so sick of hurting. I thought you could make it better, but you only made it worse.” Everything he’s feeling is on his face. He can barely look me in the eyes, and it makes mine sting with tears. “You want me to say it? Yes, I love you. But you have no idea how many times I’ve wished I didn’t.”
He curls his hands into fists, and he looks frayed at the edges, like he’s going to split apart any second if he doesn’t touch me. I feel the same way.
“Loving you,” he says, “is the stupidest, most selfish thing I’ve ever done, but I can’t stop. God knows, I’ve tried.”
Before I have time to answer, he’s moving. Within three strides, he has his arms around me, crushing me against him as he claims my mouth. The initial shock of it is quickly replaced by a white-hot fever. It melts my muscles and settles in my bones.
He groans and kisses me again, and again, becoming more passionate with each passing second. I can barely keep up.
He’s never kissed me like this before. Never. It’s like he’s speaking directly to my body. Asking permission, and apologizing, and wishing for things that can never be. He pushes me back against the wall, and even though the kiss is full of the same hungry lust that’s always lived between our mouths, it’s also something else.
It whispers under my skin and heats the air in my lungs. I feel it tangling in all my nerve endings as he presses his weight against me and moans into my lips.
“Tell me how to stop loving you, Cassie. Please. I have no fucking clue.”
He kisses me deeper. Longer. More intensely. It’s seduction and yearning. Raw and unashamed.
It’s everything.
Our mouths and hands become frantic. He says he wants to keep us apart, but our bodies have other ideas.
His movements are rough impatient with need. When he tugs at my shirt, I lift my arms to let him pull it off. My jeans are next, and I have to lean against the wall as he yanks them down. When he kisses his way back up, my legs liquefy.
Heat is coursing from him into me and back again. Everywhere he touches me burns. All the places he’s yet to touch ache. His mouth is everywhere, like he’s trying to consume me. I know how he feels. I’m just as hungry for him.
I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, desperate to get to the skin beneath. I get most of them undone, but the last one won’t give way. I grunt as I rip the fabric and push the shirt off his shoulders. When both of my hands finally land on his chest and press against the thrumming pulse beneath, I sigh.
This is more than lust. It’s even more than love. It’s imperative. Mindless, bloody-minded need. I can’t kiss him deep enough, or hold him close enough.
“God, Ethan…”
He’s not gentle, and that’s okay with me. I’m not used to him like this. So raw and uncontrolled. Nothing is being held back. Nothing. And it’s so thrilling to get so much of him, emotion catches in my throat.
He tugs at my bra and pulls the straps down so he can get to my breasts. All I am is breath as he kisses and nibbles, and when he pushes one hand into my panties, I’m one long, unending inhale.
I grip him so hard, it’s like I’m trying to get inside his skin. As I unbuckle his belt and pull it free, he’s still teasing me with his fingers and mouth, keeping me pinned to the wall to stop me from flying away. I yank his jeans open, and it’s only when I slide my hand into his boxers that he falters in his intensity. All of sudden, he’s still, and his whole body shudders as I palm the weight of him and squeeze.
Oh, how he feels. How he looks as I touch him. Muscles flex with grateful shudders and restrained urgency.
He puts a hand against the wall, head low, breath fast. He looks like he’s in pain, but I know better. I stop long enough to work his jeans and underwear over his hips, and then I maneuver him back against the wall so I can kiss a line down his chest. When I reach his abs, he starts cursing. When I take him in my mouth, he’s not even forming words anymore, just long, raspy vowel sounds.
If I had the power, I’d have him always feel like this. Loved and worshipped. I’d melt away his doubts and insecurities with soft suction. Brush away his fears with reverent touches and low, appreciative moans.