Page 90 of Chasing the Other Woman

His chest stops moving.

“I hated it,” I admit. “I hated wanting you. I hated sleeping alone and still reaching for you. I hated watching her climb into my seat and thinking maybe you didn’t notice the difference.”

His jaw clenches. “I noticed.”

“Did you?”

“Every time.” His voice drops low, ragged. “She never had what you had. No one did. No one ever could.”

The old wound twists. “It didn’t look that way from where I was standing.”

“I'm sorry.” He lowers himself to his knees in front of me, not theatrical, not polished, just Brooks with his hands braced lightly at my hips and his face tipped up to mine. “I can’t take that back. The clinic. The truck. The way I let her stand where you belonged because it was easier than looking straight at what I’d done.”

My eyes burn.

“I wanted to fix the night we lost the baby,” he says. “I thought if I controlled enough things, if I kept you far enough from danger, I could make sure nothing like that ever touched you again.” His breath shudders. “Instead, I became the thing hurting you.”

“Brooks.”

“I can’t give you those two years back. I can’t erase what I said when you were packing. I can’t undo making you believe I blamed you when the truth is I blamed myself so much I couldn’t breathe.” His hands flex against my hips. “I doubted you instead of talking to you.”

A tear slips down my face. Brooks doesn’t wipe it away until I nod.

His thumb is gentle.

“If you give me another chance, I won’t spend it trying to become a man who can promise nothing bad will ever happen,” he says. “That man doesn’t exist. I want to be the man beside you. The man who trusts you. The man who tells you when he’s scared before the fear turns into a cage.”

I press my fingers into his hair.

“I can’t promise I won’t be afraid,” he says. “I can promise my fear will never make your choices for you again.”

For a second, I only hear the air conditioner rattling in the window unit. The distant murmur of voices outside. The rain dripping from the roof in uneven taps.

Then I sink down with him.

My knees hit between his, and his arms come around me as if he has to remind himself he’s allowed. I kiss him hard enough that he groans.

Brooks lifts me carefully, and then we’re on the bed, laughing once because my elbow hits the remote and the television blares static before he swears and fumbles it off. The laugh dies when he looks down at me.

I reach for the hem of my shirt.

He catches my hand. “Let me?”

The softness of it nearly undoes me.

I nod.

He peels the shirt up slowly, his mouth following every inch of skin he uncovers. Ribs. Stomach. The place where loss used to feel like a bruise no one could see. His breath catches there, and for one sharp second, grief flickers through the room.

I touch his cheek. “Stay with me.”

His eyes lift to mine. “I’m here.”

Then his mouth presses to my skin, warm and reverent, and want rolls through me so hard my back arches off the mattress.

He undresses me like he remembers every inch and refuses to assume he has any right to it. My bra lands somewhere near the ugly lamp. His belt hits the floor. My jeans fight both of us because damp denim is a punishment no one deserves, and I make an undignified noise that has Brooks laughing against my thigh.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn.