Page 93 of A Million To Fall

My pulse stumbles.

I lean in—or maybe it’s him diminishing the distance between us—enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. Enough that I can smell his toothpaste. Mint. Clean. Comforting. Exactly like him.

My eyes flutter shut, lips tingling in anticipation.

“Skye.” His voice is rougher than before, barely even audible, strained like he’s fighting something or maybe himself.

When I look at him, his eyes are half-closed, but his jaw is tight. Painfully tight, even with his shallow breathing.

“We can’t,” he whispers.

twenty-nine

Boston

Am I a homewrecker? Sure as fuck seems like it. Maybe I should officially change my middle name from Steel to Homewrecker. Boston Homewrecker Rawlings. Has a ring to it, I guess.

Mrs. Davis is one thing. That’s transactional—something I compartmentalize.

But this? This is Skye.

It feels like stepping off a cliff on purpose and not even trying to brace for impact.

I lean back against the couch, my heart still jackhammering in my chest because, fuck, that was close. Too close. So close that my body’s still very much reacting to her nearness, her scent, the electric current charging the molecules between our lips.

Parts of me stir that I wish I had more control over.

God, I’m such an asshole. All she asked for tonight was safety. Comfort. Company. And what did I do? I almost turned this whole thing into something that could ruin… everything.

Any second now she’s going to get up from the couch—tell me to leave, or, actually, she’s too kind for that. She’ll let me stay, but she’ll retreat to her room and leave me to my festering thoughts. The ones I’ve been warring with since I came back to Stillwater.

Ugh, who am I kidding? I’ve been thinking about her since long before I even left.

I feel her shift, hyperaware of how close she still is, of the blanket still partially covering both of us. Of the fact that if I turned my head even slightly, I’d be looking right back into those aqua eyes.

She clears her throat softly.

Here it comes.

I’m going upstairs.

Instead—

“I’ve never had an orgasm,” she says quietly.

What in the ever-loving—

My head whips toward her. “What?”

She takes a deep breath, then turns to look at me, her expression serious.

“I’ve never had an orgasm.”

Everything in me stills. “But… I’m sorry, but…” I trail off waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come. “You’ve never… with Archer?”

She presses her lips together, shaking her head.

Jesus, talk about a confession.