Page 153 of Before You Fell

Willow has always noticed the things I try to bury beneath a smirk. That’s what makes her dangerous. That’s what makes her the only person alive I have never been able to bullshit properly.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say, stepping closer—slow enough that she can move if she wants. “But I’m trying really hard not to be the same prick who treats this like I deserve it.”

Her throat moves.

Fuck. I want to put my mouth there. I want to put my mouth everywhere and take my time with every inch of her until she stops waiting for me to fuck it up.

I also want to go back in time and punch myself bloody for every second I ever made her think her body were easy to take and hard to keep.

I reach for her, and when my hands settle at her waist, she inhales.

I bend and kiss her. Not softly, because I don’t know how to want her that way. My mouth fits over hers with heat, hunger, and every fucked-up thing I’ve been carrying since she walked through those rehab doors and left me outside, learning the difference between staying and standing still.

She lets out a small moan.

My hands clench before I force them to relax.

Slow down, asshole. For once in your fucking life, learn the word.

I walk her backward to the bed, my mouth never leaving hers. Her fingers dig into my shirt. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, I catch her before she can fall. One hand at her back, pulling her into me instead of letting her go down.

The movement draws a breath from her that does things to my cock I know I won’t survive.

“Fuck,” I swear against her lips. “You have no fucking idea what that sound does to me.”

“I have an idea,” she whispers, smiling.

“Not even close, Wills.” I retreat slightly to observe her. “Not even fucking close to understanding.”

I lower her onto the bed.

Not drop. Not throw her down the way the old me would have, so drunk on heat and ego that I would have mistaken urgency for proof. I lower her as if she matters.

She lies back, hair spread across the pillow, chest rising hard, eyes locked on me.

That sight should come with a fucking warning.

Willow on her bed, half-naked, wearing nothing but black panties, looking up at me like she wants me and knows exactly how much damage wanting me can do.

My cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Good. Let it fucking hurt.

I’ve spent years taking what I wanted the second I wanted it and calling it living. Now I’m standing at the edge of this bed, trying not to fuck up the only thing that has ever actually mattered.

“You going to stand there all night?” she says.

I grab the back of my shirt and pull it over my head. Her eyes drop immediately, skimming over my chest, my stomach, the ink, the body the world keeps photographing and posting online like it belongs to anyone with a screen and an opinion.

But the way Willow looks at me is not the same. It never has been. Willow looks and sees every scar under the performance.

Her fingers lift before she even thinks about it and I move close enough for her to reach me. Her palms glide over my stomach, my ribs, slow enough to make every muscle in my body lock down hard. I go still under her hands because fuck me, her touch hurts. Because there was a night in a hospital when her hand lay limp in mine and I sat there bargaining with whoever the fuck would listen, promising to be better. To be different. To stop being the selfish asshole I had always been if she would just open her eyes.

Her fingers trace the tattoo over my ribs.

“You’re shaking,” she says.