The tears come before I can stop them. Hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks.
"I don't—" My voice breaks. "I don't know what that feels like. Having people on my side. Having a community that cares. I can't even imagine it."
"You will," he says. "Soon, you'll see. This town takes care of its own."
"I'm so glad I chose Blackwater Falls." The words come out between sobs. "So glad I got off that bus here instead of somewhere else."
I move without thinking, crossing the space between us, leaning my face against his shoulder. He's solid and warm, and he doesn't push me away. Doesn't tell me I'm being too emotional or too needy. He just wraps one arm around me, holding me steady while I cry.
"Your life is about to change for the better," he murmurs. "I promise you that."
I lift my head to look at him, to thank him again, to say something that might convey even a fraction of what I'm feeling.
But I don't say anything.
Because suddenly we're kissing.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us, drawn together by something neither of us can name. His lips meet mine with urgency, not rough but determined, like he's been holding back and finally let go. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by cupping my face with both hands, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones as our mouths move together.
It's not sweet. It's hungry. Desperate. Years of isolation and pain pouring out of me, meeting something equally raw in him. His tongue traces my lower lip, and I open for him, tasting coffee and shrimp. The kiss deepens, becomes more intense, and I'm climbing into his lap without consciously deciding to, straddling him.
His hands move to my waist, gripping tight, and I feel wanted in a way I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever.
We break apart, both breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and I know I must look the same, wrecked and desperate and needing more.
I should stop here. A kiss is enough. More than enough. I barely know this man, and I've just escaped an abusive relationship, and there are a thousand reasons why going further is a terrible idea.
But I need this. Need to feel cherished and touched and chosen. Need to feel like my body belongs to me and no one else.
My hands move to the hem of my shirt. "Take this off."
Tom's eyes widen, clearly surprised. His mouth opens like he's going to say something, but no words come out.
"Please," I add, holding his gaze. "Take it off."
He stands, and for a terrifying second I think he's going to walk away. Tell me this is wrong, that I'm vulnerable, that weshouldn't. Instead, he grabs his own shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it to the floor.
Oh.
Oh God.
His body is incredible. Broad chest covered in the kind of muscle that comes from real work, not gym vanity. Defined abs that ripple as he moves. Scars crisscrossing his torso, jagged lines that speak of pain survived and battles won.
I reach out, running my hands down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, feeling the warmth of his skin under my palms. He's real and solid and here, and he's looking at me like I'm something precious.
My hands move to his belt. I fumble with the buckle, my fingers clumsy with need.
"Claire." His voice is rough. "What are you doing?"
I freeze, the buckle half-undone. Did I misread this? Did I push too far?
"I'm sorry," I start to say, pulling my hands back. "I thought—"
"I want this," he cuts me off, his hand catching mine, holding it against his stomach. "God, I want this. But I need to know if you're sure. If you want this because you want me, not because you think you owe me something. Not because the adrenaline's still pumping and you're not thinking clearly."
Derek never asked what I wanted. Never cared if I was comfortable or willing or even present. He took what he wanted when he wanted it, and my feelings were irrelevant.
But Tom is asking. Making sure. Giving me control.
