“You don’t want me here?” she asks, her lower lip wobbling.
“I didn’t say that. I askedwhyyou were here.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers.
“What the hell do you have to be sorry for?” I rasp, feeling tears prickle at my own eyes.
“God, Warrick, what I said to you. I didn’t mean it. I was angry and I just said it and I didn’t mean it,” she rambles, her words coming out in a rush.
“What didn’t you mean?”
“When I said…” Tears spill from her eyes. “When I said that you’d brought me. I didn’t. I don’t. I shouldn’t have…” She trails off, her lips trembling as she cries.
“You don’t have to apologize for telling me how you feel.”
“But that’s not how I feel. At least not about you. It was me. I did that. Not you.”
“What?” I question, utterly confused.
“You saved me, and then you kissed me, and I felt something. But after we had sex, I was worried that I’d used you.”
“You were worried thatyou’dusedme?” I laugh bitterly.
“You’ve been taking care of me since the moment we met. You brought me here when I had nowhere to stay. You cooked for me when I didn’t have anything to eat. You watched hockey with me because I like it, even though you don’t. You never judged me for my past. You told me you loved me even though I never said it back. You did all these things for me. You gave me so much, and all I have to offer you is me. So after we had sex that first time, I was worried that I had sex with you to make myself feel better for taking advantage of your generosity.”
Choking on my own saliva, I cough, hacking until my eyes water and I have to blink to clear my vision. “You…you thought you’d used me?” I question incredulously.
She nods, her expression miserable. “But that’s not the reason I had sex with you,” she says quickly.
“It’s not?”
“No,” she says. “Before you, I’ve never been attracted to…well to anyone. I thought I might be asexual, because I just had no interest in…anything. And then we met, and the first morning here, I had a shower, and I…” She trails off, her cheeks blooming a sexy red color.
“You what?” I prompt, needing her to explain.
“I touched myself and fantasized about how it’d feel if it was you,” she admits, clearly embarrassed.
“That’s not something you?—”
“Never,” she interrupts. “Not since I took my first sex-ed class and I touched myself to check I had everything girls were supposed to have down there.”
I feel my eyebrows dart up to my hairline. “You never?”
Shaking her head emphatically, her blush spreads down her neck to her chest. “No.”
“But you touched yourself and thought about me the first morning you were here?” I question.
She nods again. “Then you kissed me.”
“Your first kiss.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “And then we had sex, and you took all of my firsts.”
“How did that make you feel?” I question, needing to understand.
“Good, so good, but then bad,” she admits.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I exhale slowly. “Bad how?”
