Page 135 of Show Me

She does. Long enough for the ache in my chest to ease and tighten at the same time. Then she’s pulling me back in again, like she doesn’t want distance either. This isn’t controlled. Not the way it was before.

There’s no easing into it, no careful testing of boundaries. It’s already past that. Past the point where we pretend we don’t know exactly what this is. Her breath catches against mine, uneven, matching the rhythm that hasn’t settled since she walked out of that bar alone.

I don’t like that. The thought cuts through everything else. Don’t like that she left. Don’t like that I didn’t stop her. Don’t like that I didn’t see her until she was already halfway out the door.

My grip tightens at her waist before I check it, easing enough that it doesn’t turn into something else. “Let me stay with you.”

It comes out rougher than I intended. She shifts closer, closing what little space is left between us like she’s not questioning it anymore. That should make this simpler. It doesn’t.

Because it’s not just about right now; it’s the image that keeps flashing back of her on the dance floor. Someone else’s hand at her waist.

My hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, steadying her there as I draw her back into me, the movement sharper than before, more deliberate. “Don’t pull away.”

She doesn’t. Her hand slides up, gripping my shoulder now, holding on as hard as I am as I trail my lips along her neck until my mouth is over hers again.

This isn’t about soft edges. This isn’t about easing her into something or pretending we’re not already in deeper than either of us said we would be.

This is about making sure she stays right here, that she doesn’t walk out again like that. That I don’t have to watch it happen.

Her breath breaks against mine, uneven, and she stills, like she’s about to say something. Like she’s about to stop. I feel it. The hesitation. It slices through me fast, taking my breath away.

My hand tightens at the back of her neck before I catch myself, easing the pressure enough to keep it from turning into a push. “Don’t.”

It’s not a command. Not quite. But close. Hell, it comes out sounding more like a plea. Her fingers grasp my shirt again instead of pulling away. That’s enough. That’s all I need.

The rest of the room disappears as our mouths and hands take over, everything outside of this space, this moment, the heat still sitting under my skin from the drive over, from the way she looked when she walked out of that bar as if none of this mattered.

It matters. Whether I say it does or not. Whether she says it does or not. It matters.

“Stay. In this moment,” I murmur, grounding it back into something simpler. Something contained. “Nowhere else.”

Her answer isn’t words. It’s the way she threads her fingers into my hair and tugs, like she’s done fighting it for now. Like she’s choosing this the same way I am.

That should make it simple. It doesn’t. Because simple doesn’t feel like this. And control doesn’t feel like it’s slipping under my hands the way it is right now.

Chapter Seventy-One

Ruby

His fingers thread into my hair, and I tug back, not gentle, the sting of his touch grounding me in this moment, this choice, this mistake I'm making with my eyes wide open. He makes a sound against my mouth, desperate, broken, and I feel it everywhere.

“Bedroom,” I manage between kisses, but even as I say it, I know we won't make it. His hands are already under my thighs, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, feel the hard line of his cock pressed against me through too many layers of clothing.

“Can't,” he grits out, and he's carrying me, three stumbling steps, my back hitting the refrigerator, magnets scattering, something ceramic shattering on the tile. Neither of us looks. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, back to my mouth, and I'm pulling at his shirt, his belt, anything to get closer to skin.

We collapse onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs, the old springs groaning beneath us. I land half on top of him, half beside him, and he's already shoving my shirt up, his palms rough against my ribs, my breasts, thumbs dragging over my nipples until I arch into him.

“Ruby.” My name comes out wrecked. “Tell me to stop.”

I don't. I reach between us, find him hard and straining against his jeans, and his hips jerk upward, helpless, uncontrolled. The sound he makes is raw, animal, and I want more of it. I want everything he's been holding back.

I get his belt undone, the button, the zipper, and he's lifting his hips so I can shove them down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and already wet at the tip. I wrap my hand around him, and he groans, head falling back against the armrest, his throat working.

“Condom,” he manages, but his hands are already pulling at my pants, my underwear, dragging them down my thighs until I kick them free. “Fuck. Ruby. I need–“

“I know.” I don't know where my purse is, where anything is, but he's already reaching past me, wallet from his back pocket, tearing it open with shaking fingers.

The latex snaps tight. His hands tremble. The sight of it undoes something in me. Xavier. Controlled, careful Xavier, falling apart because of me. Because he thought he lost me tonight. Because he watched me walk away. Because he couldn't stop it.