touch sends a thousand lightning bolts across my skin.
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the worthless piece of shit who did this to you could have walked past you in Charleston and I wouldn’t have known, or that he’s on his way here right now. And worst?” He pauses, his fingers tightening slightly on the side of my head. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how I couldn’t protect you because you refused to tell me the motherfuckin’ truth. And how I have to protect you because, yeah, I want to protect you.” He brings his face close to mine.
So close I can’t tell where my breath stops and his starts.
So close I’m shivering in the evening heat.
So close my body is buzzing.
So close I can feel each dip and bump of his muscled body, even though his hand is the only part touching me.
“Els, I gotta protect you because no other girl has ever fuckin’ bothered me as much as you do.”
“Well, thank—”
His lips—they’re on mine. Hot, soft, smooth. They taste like coffee and cinnamon, and he smells that way, too. His hand falls to my side and it burns me through my dress. Every little touch, whether it’s his lips working mine or his nose brushing mine or his fingers flexing against my skin, is more intense than I could ever have imagined.
My hands creep up his body to his neck. I wrap my arms around him, falling into his kiss, letting him prove whatever point he’s trying to prove.
It should be wrong. I should be running screaming. But I can’t move.
It isn’t wrong.
It feels a little right.
Like every word we’ve exchanged since we first saw each other has been building to this.
Like today, all day, every painful glance, has been foreplay for this kiss.
His hand slides down to my thigh and up, pulling my dress up with it, and I gasp, because, whoa. But it’s nice. His touch is like a gentle spring breeze ghosting over my skin, until his hand rounds to my back.
My bruise.
“Tate,” I whisper, every one of my muscles freezing.
His fingertips brush the edge of the bruise. “Say it again. My name.”
“Move your hand.” Every word quivers. “Please.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my arms. No—he can’t touch that. He can’t touch where he did.
“Els.” He cups my face. “Ella. Darlin’, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”
But I remember. The shove into the wall because I didn’t get a chance to pick up my wedding dress. The punch to my back, then the push against the table.
“Ella . . . Ella!”
I open my eyes and look up, shaking. All over. Everywhere.
Tate stares at me, every bit of anger gone. “Els?”
I push at his chest, because he needs to let go.
He doesn’t.
He wraps his arms around me.
Softly but strongly, wrapping me in his embrace.
He holds me until I stop fighting him.
Then he holds me some more.
And he whispers, “You’re safe with me, darlin’. Always.”
Tate
Fuck everything.
My name.
My kiss.
Her tears.
Her fear.
I rest my elbows on the dining table and run my fingers through my hair. I wasn’t supposed to kiss her last night. I’ve wanted to—fuck, have I—but I wasn’t going to. I was going to pull my big-boy boxers on, unravel my cock, and get the fuck on with it. Maybe I’d jack off once or twice, then be such an asshole she’d quit and leave.
Now it won’t happen. That sassy, attitude-filled act she puts on is just that—an act. It’s fucking bullshit, a total performance so no one sees the scared-as-shit girl inside. So no one will get close enough to look into her eyes and see the pain there.
She ain’t broken, though. She’s strong and resilient, despite the odd switches to shyness. She’s like a knotted ball of my mom’s yarn waiting to be untied and unraveled, ready to spin into something beautiful.
Except she is already. Beautiful. Her smile, her eyes, her laugh—it’s all so fucking beautiful it pisses me off. She and her goddamn innocent
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the worthless piece of shit who did this to you could have walked past you in Charleston and I wouldn’t have known, or that he’s on his way here right now. And worst?” He pauses, his fingers tightening slightly on the side of my head. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how I couldn’t protect you because you refused to tell me the motherfuckin’ truth. And how I have to protect you because, yeah, I want to protect you.” He brings his face close to mine.
So close I can’t tell where my breath stops and his starts.
So close I’m shivering in the evening heat.
So close my body is buzzing.
So close I can feel each dip and bump of his muscled body, even though his hand is the only part touching me.
“Els, I gotta protect you because no other girl has ever fuckin’ bothered me as much as you do.”
“Well, thank—”
His lips—they’re on mine. Hot, soft, smooth. They taste like coffee and cinnamon, and he smells that way, too. His hand falls to my side and it burns me through my dress. Every little touch, whether it’s his lips working mine or his nose brushing mine or his fingers flexing against my skin, is more intense than I could ever have imagined.
My hands creep up his body to his neck. I wrap my arms around him, falling into his kiss, letting him prove whatever point he’s trying to prove.
It should be wrong. I should be running screaming. But I can’t move.
It isn’t wrong.
It feels a little right.
Like every word we’ve exchanged since we first saw each other has been building to this.
Like today, all day, every painful glance, has been foreplay for this kiss.
His hand slides down to my thigh and up, pulling my dress up with it, and I gasp, because, whoa. But it’s nice. His touch is like a gentle spring breeze ghosting over my skin, until his hand rounds to my back.
My bruise.
“Tate,” I whisper, every one of my muscles freezing.
His fingertips brush the edge of the bruise. “Say it again. My name.”
“Move your hand.” Every word quivers. “Please.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my arms. No—he can’t touch that. He can’t touch where he did.
“Els.” He cups my face. “Ella. Darlin’, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”
But I remember. The shove into the wall because I didn’t get a chance to pick up my wedding dress. The punch to my back, then the push against the table.
“Ella . . . Ella!”
I open my eyes and look up, shaking. All over. Everywhere.
Tate stares at me, every bit of anger gone. “Els?”
I push at his chest, because he needs to let go.
He doesn’t.
He wraps his arms around me.
Softly but strongly, wrapping me in his embrace.
He holds me until I stop fighting him.
Then he holds me some more.
And he whispers, “You’re safe with me, darlin’. Always.”
Tate
Fuck everything.
My name.
My kiss.
Her tears.
Her fear.
I rest my elbows on the dining table and run my fingers through my hair. I wasn’t supposed to kiss her last night. I’ve wanted to—fuck, have I—but I wasn’t going to. I was going to pull my big-boy boxers on, unravel my cock, and get the fuck on with it. Maybe I’d jack off once or twice, then be such an asshole she’d quit and leave.
Now it won’t happen. That sassy, attitude-filled act she puts on is just that—an act. It’s fucking bullshit, a total performance so no one sees the scared-as-shit girl inside. So no one will get close enough to look into her eyes and see the pain there.
She ain’t broken, though. She’s strong and resilient, despite the odd switches to shyness. She’s like a knotted ball of my mom’s yarn waiting to be untied and unraveled, ready to spin into something beautiful.
Except she is already. Beautiful. Her smile, her eyes, her laugh—it’s all so fucking beautiful it pisses me off. She and her goddamn innocent
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