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“Say it again.”
“I love you…”
I moan and kiss her. She kisses me back—and this time, she feels solid, real. She feels like Kenzi. She’s not a ghost of herself, and she’s not desperately clawing at someone who isn’t there. She’s mine, and she’s here, present with me. I cup her face and stroke my thumb over her cheek and feel the wetness of her tears there. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, clinging to me, and we start again, making love now, as one.
We kiss and slide together, holding each other, tasting each other. I tell her I love her, again and again, and when she says it next, we crest together, and this hot, intense pleasure catapults from my soul into hers.
We ride it out, kissing, panting, and I’ve never felt closer to her.
81
Kenzi
When I wake up, Jason King is naked in my bed.
I want to say the light of day brings out his blemishes—an ugly wrinkle or an old, unsightly scar.
But it doesn’t. He’s perfect. Every inch of him. His strong jaw. His tousled raven hair. His stacked physique, dove tattoo sweeping over his chest and peeking out from under the thin sheet. His protective arms.
He’s so sweet, so kind, so full of unconditional love, and I hate him for it suddenly.
Why can’t I be satisfied with this beautiful man in my bed, with the biggest heart known to mankind?
Why does my love need to have porcupine quills to feel real?
Quietly, I slip out of bed. I brush my teeth, tease the sex-knots out of my hair, and slip into clean clothes. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my hand gently over Jason’s bicep. He stirs, blinking out of his deep slumber, and when he sees me, he grins.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” I try to match his smile.
He props himself up on his elbow. “You’re up and at ’em.”
“I have to make breakfast.”
“No. You don’t.” He pulls himself out of bed—and even in the cold morning, dear Lord is he impressive. He finds his clothes on the floor and steps into them, pulling his pants around his hips. “You hang out. Relax. Everyone likes scrambled eggs, right?”
I bite my lip. There are thorns inside my chest, and I feel the urge to say something cruel.
“I thought about him last night,” I say casually. “Donovan.”
Jason looks up at me as he ties the laces of his shoes. “I know.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No,” he says plainly. He tugs his shirt over his arms. “I was thinking about him, too.”
His words vibrate through me. He catches the side of my face and presses a kiss to my forehead instead when I tilt away from his mouth.
And in that moment, I do think of Donovan. And something he told me. He’d said—is it possible that you’re looking for reasons to hate Jason…because hating him is easier than telling him the truth?
He was right. Jason has done nothing wrong. It’s the lie that’s poisoning us. This venomous sac that has latched itself to my heart and spoils everything it touches.
“I’m going to get Otto ready,” Jason says, fingers on the doorknob. “Come down when you’re ready.”
“Jason.” He stalls and waits. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, but I have to get these words out. “There’s…something you need to know.”
I tell Jason everything.
