Page 163 of Before You Fell

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Willow

Iwake to an empty bed and an ache that makes me blush before my brain has fully arrived.

The sheets are tangled around my legs. Morning light spills through the curtains, soft and pale.

I lie still and let my body tell the story before my pride gets in the way.

My thighs are sore. My stomach feels pulled tight in the best and worst way. There is a tender spot low inside me that remembers Phoenix with humiliating accuracy and with absolutely no apology for it.

The man who fucked me like he had been starving and hated how badly he needed the meal. The one who took his time after making me come with his mouth and then slid inside me slowly enough that I felt every inch of him. The one who dragged orgasm after orgasm out of me until my body had nothing left to hide behind and gave him everything anyway.

The same man who tucked his face into my neck, kept his arm around me, and didn’t move until I fell asleep.

My hand instinctively slides across the mattress beside me and I hate how cold it is. He hasn’t been here for a while.

The old wound opens so quickly it is almost embarrassing. One second I’m a woman who made a choice with her eyes open and the next I’m right back in the aftermath of that storage room.

I close my eyes and breathe through it.

The moment I sit up, my body protests immediately. A low ache blooms between my thighs and I feel him everywhere. My skin is too sensitive, lit up in places I had forgotten existed. There are faint marks on my hips from where his fingers gripped me. There’s one on my inner thigh that sends a stupid, traitorous pulse through me when I notice it.

I have had sex before, but I have never been fucked the way Phoenix fucked me last night. Not even close. Not even in all the years I spent imagining it with that reckless, breathtaking stupidity only a girl in love with her best friend can manage.

Last night was not a fantasy. It was sweat, hunger, and tenderness with teeth. Last night was Phoenix between my thighs, his mouth wet from me, and his eyes black with pride, telling me he wasn’t done until every part of my body believed him.

I get out of the bed. The movement makes me wince. I see my T-shirt on the floor near the foot of the bed and pull it over my head, wincing again as the motion wakes every sore muscle he left behind. I open the drawer and pull out clean underwear.

If Phoenix has reverted to his natural state of certified asshole, I’m not walking into my own living room without panties on. I still have some dignity. Three square inches of cotton between me and him. It’s not much, but right now it’s the only armor I’ve got.

The apartment is quiet when I open my bedroom door. I move down the hall, my bare feet silent on the floor. I breathe through the part of me that already knows how to survive what comes next.

Then I see him on the floor with his back against the couch, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out in front of him. His hair is messy from sleep. Dark strands fall over his eyes that he hasn’t bothered pushing back. Morning light cuts across the hard lines of his shoulders and chest, the ink that runs up his ribs and over his arms. Each tattoo catches the light differently as his fingers move over the guitar in his lap.

He is just plucking the same slow progression over and over, with his head dipping occasionally to check his fingers on the frets before lifting back toward the window. There is something about the way he looks right now that makes my chest do something inconvenient.

He reaches for the coffee on the floor beside him without looking and takes a sip. He sets it back down, and keeps playing, as if he belongs here. As if the idea of leaving through the night never once crossed his mind.

As if sensing me, he looks up and his fingers go still on the strings.

His eyes travel down my body, taking in my bare legs, and his gaze stops at my chest, where my nipples are hard against the thin fabric. He looks without apology, before his eyes come back to mine, and he gives me a smile.

Phoenix sets the guitar down and gets to his feet with absolutely no business looking that good before coffee.

He crosses the room, eyes locked on mine, and when he reaches me, he pulls me straight into his arms.

My body goes still for one second, surprised by the simplicity of it. Then I fold.

His arms close around me and the breath he lets out moves warm through my hair. His bare chest is warm against my cheek, one hand spread flat across my back, the other resting at my waist.

“Morning, Wills,” he murmurs into my hair.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face up. His eyes search mine and then he leans in and kisses me. It’s easy, unhurried, and warm.

When he pulls back, his thumb brushes slowly along my jaw.

“I made coffee,” he says, letting go of me and moving to the kitchen.