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“I’m done running,” I tell him, watching the way his gaze dips to my mouth, the conflicted darkness in the depths of his eyes. “I ran from Alan once. I’m sure of that, even if I still barely remember it. And I’m not going to do it again. I’ll never run again.” I hesitate, then add, “I’ve found too many reasons to stay.”
He knows what I mean, even though I can’t say it out loud. Even though I can hardly admit it to myself. Gray knows that he, Declan, Elias, Max—they are my reasons for staying. They are my reasons for pushing and not backing down.
Gray’s thumb brushes against my lips. He looks like he’s about to say something, hesitating as he gazes down into my face. But just like it is for me, it seems to be too much for him to put into words.
So instead, he kisses me.
5
The pressure of Gray’s lips against mine starts off gentle, almost hesitant, as if he’s holding himself back. Trying to make sure he won’t hurt me.
He kisses my top lip, then my bottom lip, tugging them between his own as water streams down over us, dripping over our skin as our mouths move together. I can taste whiskey on his breath, and I know he can taste it on my tongue too—the balm we each tried to pour over the wounds that can’t be treated with antiseptic and bandages.
The soul wounds.
The fear of loving, and losing what we love. The fear of not being able to keep the people we care about safe.
Unconsciously, our kiss deepens. The strokes of our tongues become harder and more demanding as we angle our heads. His hold on me loosens just a little, enough for his hands to start roaming over my body, as if he’s trying to verify by touch that every part of me is truly still here. That I’m alive and whole.
His broad palms move over the scrapes and bruises on my skin, and I wince from the pressure of his hands. He makes a noise in his throat and starts to pull away, but I palm the back of his head, sliding my fingers through his wet hair as I smash my lips against him, gasping into his mouth.
It hurts, but I don’t give a fuck.
I need this.
Before he slipped into the bathroom, I scrubbed body wash over myself, hating the sting as the soap cleansed my cuts. But this pain feels good. It feels purifying in a way the soap didn’t, as if Gray’s touch can burn away the reminders of what Reagan did to me.
He doesn’t want to hurt me. I can still feel him trying to hold back, to slow the hungry movements of his mouth, to keep his fingers from digging into my skin. But I need more. I need him to know he won’t break me, no matter what he does.
As his hands skate over the slick curves of my hips, I reach between us and find the thick length of his cock, already hard and hot. When I wrap my fingers around him, he growls into my mouth. There’s a warning in the sound, and I know exactly what he’s trying to tell me.
I’m straining his self-control.
I’m testing his restraint.
Good.
A feral sort of smile curves my lips, and I know he can feel it in our kiss. Squeezing his shaft a little tighter, I slide my fist up and down, stroking his entire length.
His hips jerk forward, his fingers tightening on my hips until they dig into my skin hard enough to bruise. I let out a muffled grunt, and again, he tries to loosen his grip. But I move closer to him, kissing him desperately as I slide my hand up and run my thumb over the rounded head of his cock. I brush the pad of my thumb over the slit at the tip, feeling the slick wetness that has nothing to do with the water pouring over us.
“Sparrow…”
Gray rasps the word. The name he gave me. The warning is even more evident in his voice, and I know that he’s about to break.
“I need you, Gray,” I murmur against his lips, realizing he needs to hear it from me before he’ll let himself go. “I don’t care if it hurts. I need you to fuck me.”
“No.” He grunts, contradicting his own word as his hips thrust into my touch. I stroke his cock harder, my pussy clenching and my clit throbbing as I feel him pulse against my skin. “I won’t risk hurting you, Sparrow. You’ve already been through too damn much since last night.”
“Yeah, I have. But I still need you.”
My voice cracks as I speak, and I know he hears it. I might be tough, but I’m not invincible. I’m falling apart at the seams a little here. But what Gray doesn’t realize is that his presence, his touch—no matter how rough—isn’t going to tear me apart. It’s going to piece me back together.
His body goes stiff, tension rippling through his muscles. Finally, he drags his lips away from mine. His calloused hands slide up to my shoulders, pushing me away gently. When our gazes meet, I see the wildness in his blue-green eyes—fear and need and anger that he’s afraid to unleash on me.
His brown hair is wet, slicked to his head by the spray of the shower, and water droplets cling to his skin. My own skin has been washed clean of blood, and the water runs clear as it disappears down the drain. But I can see the marks on my arms, marring the pale skin.
I know what he sees when he looks at me. And I know he feels responsible for every single bruise and cut.
