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I feel it, then. That this isn’t about the sex.
Make love to me, he’d said.
I’ve never done that before. With him. With anyone. I’ve cared about my partners, but I’ve never been as obsessed with their pleasure or as deeply in love as I’ve found myself with Shiloh.
“I love you,” I say on a pointed thrust. “I love you.”
Again.
Every time I rut into his body, I say it again: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
It’s a song of chanted praise and slapping skin. Of moans that turn to cries and then to screams. Of heavy breaths panted against my palm as I quiet them.
His cheeks and chest are covered in splotchy pink patches, and he’s whining like he just can’t get enough. When I spit on my fingers and sit up so I can stroke his friction-deprived cock, his eyes roll back and he squeezes me for all I’m worth.
His hole flutters and grips me like it needs me to stay buried, so that’s what I give him. I grind into his spasming heat and rock my hips until the tail end of his orgasm sets off my own.
After, we lay there with our eyes locked together, sweat dripping down my brow and some dotting Shiloh’s forehead.
There’s some finite resolution in his eyes, and I can’t tell if it’s in my favor or whether this was just a satisfying ending to a game he no longer wants to play.
I reluctantly break the spell to pull out and tie off the condom. Shiloh sits up while I dispose of it and wraps his arms around his knees pulled tight to his chest. He’s watching me, eyes a little misty and a small smile on his face.
Looking at him seeming so small after one of the most incredible experiences of my life solidifies the worry that never stops whispering in my ear.
I grab a throw blanket Mrs. Grenshaw gave me and drape it over his shoulders, sitting beside him on the floor.
“Thank you,” I tell him, and curious eyes snap up to mine. “For giving me this.”
“You deserve it,” he says. “You deserve a lot better than a brat who hates your guts.” There’s no conviction, but still I feel an unnatural tightness in my chest.
“Shiloh.” He tilts his head, and I can’t help but to rest my palm on his cheek and feel his warmth. “I need you to do something for me.”
Even he must feel the weight of what I’m about to say, because a hesitant fear lights up in his eyes.
I want to kiss him again. To reassure him that I’m not asking for something monumental—just the last shred of hope I’ll let myself hold onto.
My hands fall to my sides, and I prop them on my knees as I work the words over in my head. Shiloh presses his knee to mine and brushes our fingertips together.
“I can’t take this kind of hate anymore, Shiloh. I’m too in love with you for it not to break my heart.”
A hot whoosh of air escapes his chest.
“I don’t hate you.”
I grasp his fingers in my own. “Not me. Yourself. I can’t stand seeing you rip yourself apart for something that was never your fault.”
There’s a war waging in his eyes. The part of him that wants to argue and the part of him that’s so self-loathing my request only makes it worse.
“Before you went to rehab, you tried to kill yourself. I haven’t told anyone. I’ll keep every secret you need from me. But I can’t watch you hurt yourself and know that it might still be because of me.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not… I’m not… I don’t understand.”
I let go of his hand and grip his chin softly but firmly so he knows this is important.
“You’ve told me multiple times that I’ve taken too much from you. I can’t be with you and know that every time you look at me, you still think of the assault.”
Shiloh doesn’t speak, just stares at me with wide eyes and parted lips as I shove the last of my request from my aching lungs.
