You and Everything After(72)

I don’t speak, because I don’t think that’s what he wants. Just getting the words out, just saying this to me was so difficult for him. It’s not something that he wants discussion on. He just wants to feel me, for me to help him find a way.

With our bodies close, I bring both of my hands up to either side of his face, and I kiss him with the same reverence he’s shown me—slow and deep and patient. I worship him with my kiss. When I pull away, I look at him and my eyes beg him to trust me. Slowly, I turn to my back, and then my other side. I lie against him on my bed, our bodies spooned together, my curves finding the hardness of his muscles and melding together.

I can tell he’s unsure, afraid of not being able to do what I’m trying. He’s afraid of failing to please me, but I’m just as afraid of failing him. My hands are slow, my first one reaching for his arm and hand until I find his fingers, weaving mine through his and gripping hard to reassure him that I’ve got this. With my other hand, I reach lower, between us, until I find his hardness ready for me, and I guide him into place.

As I slide against him, pushing him deeper inside, his erection completely filling me, I feel his grip tighten, and he brings both of our hands around my body, pulling me to him. His exhale is slow, and the tickle of his breath as his mouth finds the back of my neck only makes me want to move against him more.

My hips slowly rock, my body doing most of the work. His arms weave around both sides of my body as his hands splay across my breasts, my ribs, my stomach—he touches all of me, and my body reacts to every touch, my hips working harder, my body working harder.

His hands never rest, but his hold on me is always tight and firm, his forearms fully flexed to make sure the space between us is minimal. The more I move against him, the harder he breathes, and the more my own need grows again. As the intensity builds, my hips work harder and faster, and when Ty’s hands both slide down my body to rest just above my pelvis, I lose all control. My body shakes, and the rocking of my hips becomes slower, but his hands pull me back to him tightly—over and over until he groans into my hair, his head pressed against the back of mine.

We lie still like this, holding each other just as we finished, for minutes—until I’m sure his arm is falling asleep, and my body begins to grow cold from being exposed. His grip on me loosens, and I slip away from him, pulling my shirt over my head so I can step into the closet to freshen up at my sink.

My reflection catches my attention, and I pause at the mirror, noticing the flushness of my face. My chest feels tight, and every nerve in me wants me to cry. I don’t understand it, because I’ve never been happier. But something happened between Ty and me just now—something amazing, and beautiful, and special—but also something raw. And I want to hold onto it hard and fast.

When I slip back into the room in a fresh T-shirt and a loose pair of sleep shorts, Ty is already dressed in his boxers and is waiting for me, my quilt pulled back on the corner, a welcome for me to join him. I flip the light switch and crawl into his arms, this time my cheek finding the firmness of his chest. His lips touch the top of my head, resting there for several seconds before he turns his head, replacing his lips with his chin.

I love you, Tyson Preeter. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you…

I mouth the words, shrouded in darkness. It’s a rehearsal for the real thing, and I feel the quaking in my gut, because the thought of saying this aloud terrifies me. I’ve never said this, not to anyone, other than family. I rarely say it now to my parents and Paige; in fact, I think we were kids the last time I uttered those words to her. It’s sad how hard it gets to love.

“Thank you,” he whispers, interrupting my homemade panic attack. His whisper is soft, but perfectly clear. I don’t say anything in return, because I know what he meant by thank you. I squeeze him tightly and kiss his chest once more before closing my eyes, my lullaby the chorus of I love yous that cease to end in my head.





Chapter 21



Cass



The debate over whether or not I would join the soccer team picked up right where it left off the night before. When Ty left for his workouts with clients, I turned the sound back on for my phone and endured the three messages waiting for me—one from my father, reiterating his reasoning; one from my mother pretending nothing was wrong at all; and one from Paige, telling me she heard about it all from Mom.

I don’t feel like talking to any of them, but I call my dad back anyway because if I have to talk to one of them, at least he has a valid point. He isn’t going to waggle a finger or feign like everything’s fine and my spirit isn’t destroyed.