Page 74 of Surviving in Clua


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His chest lifts slowly, his breaths steady, his attention one hundred percent focused on me. My face.My mood. “You don’t need to know my story to know me, Kenzi.”

I take a breath to—to say what? I can’t force him to share with me. Can’t make him trust me enough with his past to be open with me. And even if I could, it wouldn’t mean anything if I had to drag it out of him. I chew on the inside of my cheek. “But I want to know you.” I shake my head, water running down my face. “I just wish you’d—”

“—I don’t want my issues to touch you. If I could get rid of them I would, so why would I willingly put them in your head?”

“I could handle them. Iwouldhandle them.” With a long sigh, I press both hands against his pecs, smoothing my palms up his warm skin until I reach his jaw, my thumbs brushing the edge of his damp beard. “I know it’s early, and I accept that you don’t want to tell me about the tattoos or the scars, but now it’s the guy on the beach, and tomorrow it’ll be something else you decide I’m better off kept in the dark over. I’ve been here before. Secrets and half-truths and…”

“You know me.” He scans my face from eyes to mouth, then back again, steam wrapping us, hot and humid, shining on his forehead and clinging to his hair. “More than most.”

I tilt my head to the side. I believe him. I believe he thinks he’s protecting me—or himself—or both of us by keeping the hard stuff to himself. But I don’t want to be protected. “I’m just tired of being brushed off as a flake.” I shake my head and drop my gaze to the polished concrete beneath his feet. “Underestimated.”

Hands cup the sides of my neck and my back hits the cold tiles before I even realize he’s moved.

“I’ll do better.” Forehead pressed to mine, thumbs brushing my jaw, he holds me with those gunmetal gray eyes, his massive body engulfing mine, pressing me back into the wall.

My fingers close around his forearms, emotion setting my jaw before my chin can tremble.

Seconds tick by, hot, humid, and so full of everything he won’t talk about it’s almost suffocating.

“Just give me time.” His kiss is slow but desperate, his tongue hard against mine. I don’t push him away, I kiss him back. Harder. Because I want this to be enough.

“Let me show you.” His hand drops to lift my leg around his waist, and he pushes me up the wall with a deliberate thrust that has me pulling back from his lips on a pant. For better or worse my fingers sink into his hair, the back of my head hitting the hard tiles when he grinds against me. He grazes his teeth along my jaw and thrusts again, his shorts the only thing between us. “Please.”

“Show me,” I whisper just as desperate for this to fix the chasm his secrets are forcing between us as he is.

A second later, his shorts slap wetly against the ground, and the fat head of his cock nudges my sex as he drags my other leg up around his hip, opening me to him. His shoulders heave, and he presses his face into my neck, his chest crushed against mine, his heartbeat thudding against my breasts, water streaming between us, over us, steam billowing around us.

And then he pushes in. The intense stretch, the feel of him forcing me to take his thickness, has my mouth falling open, a million nerve-endings stroked awake by every ridge, every vein, every solid inch of him sliding into me.

“I love you.” It’s rough and raw. A vibration against my throat. A broken growl of a whisper before he drags his eyes up to mine and thrusts again, his lips parting and his brow knitting, his skin sliding over mine. “I love you,” He breathes it again, his gaze flicking from my left eye to my right, his face so close I can pick out the sunburst of denim blue in his irises, see how it fades out to deep gray. So close, I can see the truth in every line, every hard edge to his expression. He loves me and he needs that to be enough.

I kiss him because I love him too. I kiss him because I’m determined to make it enough.

He told me he loved me. Then showed me—repeatedly and oh so thoroughly.

Cheek pressed against his chest, his big hand a comforting weight on my back, I pull in an exhausted breath. Jasmine shampoo, floral shower gel and clean man, I yawn it back out and my eyelids slip closed, every well-used muscle in my body releasing tendon by tendon as I listen to his sleep-even breaths. I have his present. And his future. I just have to make peace with not knowing any of the stuff that came before—without ever really knowing who he is… or was.

I’m not sure what drags me back from the edge of sleep at first, but I flinch into consciousness, crushed to Mylo’s side, my eyes popping open, blinking groggily into the darkness.

“Trap.” He jolts beside me, throwing his massive arm over his face. “It’s a trap.”

I blink again and sit up, rubbing my face, my brain stuttering awake. Did he just? Did I just make that—

“Fall back.” His fist thumps down onto the mattress between us. “Fall the fuck back.”

I jerk around. No. Definitely not. Nightmare. What do I do? Do I wake him?

“Banks. Fuck. Hold tight, buddy.”

My heart thumps in my throat, my hands held up like—like I’ve no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do.

“Medic. I need a fucking medic,” he roars and jack-knifes up, eyes open, chest heaving, sweat glistening over his skin in what little light has made it through the break between the curtains.

I don’t know how many seconds pass, what time of night it is, or even how long we sit there for, but eventually the tension releases from his shoulders and he scrubs his hands over his face.

“Mylo,” I whisper, reaching to touch his bicep, but pulling back before my fingers make contact.

He drags in a breath, then releases it slowly before he turns, his big body twisting, sheets tangled around his waist, one thigh bared, the other covered. “You’re awake.”

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