Page 107 of Wait for Him

Everything in me goes quiet in a completely different way.

James.

Fuck.

"They knew us back in Houston, before my brother was Bennet Sullivan, when he was still Michael Bennett. We left his name and both our old lives behind there when he turned eighteen. Samson and Lauren followed us out a couple of years later so I could stay close to James, even if close only ever meant from afar."

She takes another breath, and I feel it move through her against my chest.

"They've given him a good life. He's named after my father. For years I was terrified there'd be some part of Wesley in him, that I'd look at him and see the man who did it. I knew I'd never survive that." Her fingers curl slightly against me. "But there isn't. There's none of him in there. He's mine. He's beautiful, and I've never told a soul."

Her voice gets quieter.

"Bennet doesn't even know. I hid it to give James a solid life, and by the time Michael was grown there was no point in unburdening it onto him. What was I supposed to do, hand him fourteen years of guilt over something he couldn't change? The suffering was mine. It was always going to be mine to carry alone."

Her eyes close.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

I tighten my arms around her and press my mouth to the top of her head. I don't tell her she should've told me. I don't ask how the fuck she carried all of this for fourteen years without anybody knowing, because knowing Rose, she'd probably give me a detailed answer and somehow make it sound reasonable.

I just hold her.

When I finally trust my voice, I keep it soft. "Is the assault why you feel more comfortable being in control? Sexually, I mean."

She nods against my chest. "Yeah. I was a virgin when it happened. It took five years before I could be with anyone after that."

Fucking hell.

She was...

He took...

I can't finish the thought.

Rage floods through me, hot and so goddamn useless that I have to clench my jaw against it. She thinks she's telling me a story about a stranger, and I have to lie here and let her believe that, because the truth sitting in my chest would burn this whole moment down around us.

I'm sorry.

God, Rose, you don't know how fucking sorry.

But my grief isn't what she needs from me right now, and neither is my guilt. This is hers. She trusted me enough to finally hand me something she's carried alone for fourteen years, and I'm not going to make her turn around and carry me too.

So I breathe through it, keep my arms exactly as gentle as they were before I knew, and force my voice steady.

"I'm so sorry, baby."

The words mean so much more than she can hear.

She nuzzles her cheek into my chest, and I feel some of the tension finally leave her.

"I like it when you call me that."

"I like it too."

Then she moves, rolling on top of me and settling across my thighs before dragging herself along my hardening length in one slow, deliberate stroke. Her eyes find mine, and there's no ghost in them now. There's only Rose, right here with me, taking what she wants.

I know what she needs. She needs to write over it, right now, with me, and I'm begging my body to cooperate even while my mind keeps trying to show me things I can't afford to picture. I shove every one of them down.