And now this. Her falling apart in her shower. Me holding her while water poured over us both, her body against mine, lace and skin and the kind of trust that makes my chest ache.
I shouldn't be replaying it—wet hair, smudged makeup, lace bra clinging to her skin, leaving almost nothing to imagination. Her hand on my face. Her lips inches from mine. The way she leaned in like kissing me was the only logical conclusion to years of wanting.
And I stopped it.
I fucking stopped it.
Because I'm supposed to be the good guy here. The one with boundaries. The one who doesn't take advantage of drunk, heartbroken women even when they're looking at me like I'm the answer to every question they've ever asked.
But Christ, it almost killed me to pull away.
My body is still thrumming with unspent want. These track pants feel too tight. My hands ache with the memory of her skin.
If circumstances were different—if she was sober, if she wasn't engaged, if her world wasn't actively imploding—I would have done exactly what every instinct was screaming at me to do.
I would have grabbed her face in both hands, backed her up against that shower wall, and shown her exactly how a woman like her deserves to be loved.
Worshipped. Consumed.
Would have kissed her until she forgot her own name, let alone his. Would have peeled that wet lace off her skin slowly and learned every sound she makes, every place that makes her gasp, every way to make her fall apart in my hands all over again.
I would have fucked her like I'd never get the chance again—desperate and thorough and with seven years of pent-up need behind every touch.
My cock strains against my sweatpants at the thought.
But I didn't.
Because even though every cell in my body was screaming at me to take what she was offering, I know the difference between what she needs and what she wants.
And right now, she needs someone to protect her from making decisions she might regret.
Even if that someone is me.
Even if it means protecting her from myself.
And then there's fucking Wes.
My jaw clenches at the thought of him. My hands curl into fists against the sheets.
He had her.
He fucking had her—this incredible, brilliant, beautiful woman who lights up rooms just by existing in them—and he threw it away for what? A fling with some actress?
Does he even know what he had?
She doesn't give herself easily. She never has. I know that better than anyone.
And this asshole proposed to her, promised her forever, and then cheated on her like she was nothing.
The image of her in that shower—sobbing, breaking apart, unable to breathe—flashes through my mind and the rage intensifies.
He did that to her.
What I can't move past is how he made her question her own judgment. Made her blame herself for his fuck-up. Made her feel like she should have seen it coming, like missing the signs was her failure instead of his.
I hate him for that most of all.
For making her doubt herself when she's the most sure thing I've ever known.
