from the past. Oh, they talked about it, but when it came time for sex, they both shoved it to the side.
She didn’t want that anymore. She wanted it all. She wanted all of him.
And whatever the cost, she didn’t want to live in the dark anymore.
She took a deep breath, grabbed the hem of her top and pulled it up over her head. Then she reached behind her back, grabbing hold of the clasp on her bra and releasing it, shimmying her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.
She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. When she opened them, Gage was looking at her from his position down on the floor, his dark eyes intense. He was unmoving, unflinching. Completely unreadable.
She might know more of his secrets than anyone else did, but she didn’t know all of them. She never would.
That thought made her unaccountably sad. She shouldn’t care whether or not she knew all of his secrets. Whether or not they had infinite time together or severely limited time. It was never about the two of them. It was about purging all of the ugliness inside of them both. Finding a safe place for it to land. So it didn’t have to live inside of them, poisoning them, trapping them.
She gritted her teeth, straightening her shoulders and staring him down. “I don’t see any point in hiding this anymore,” she said.
He pushed up from the floor, moving into a standing position, keeping a healthy space between them. His breathing was harsh, hard, his teeth clenched together. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he continued his distant visual perusal of her body.
He moved to her slowly, not saying anything, and then he dropped to his knees again, right in front of her. He put his hand on her stomach, tracing along the line left by the accident, or subsequent surgeries. They were a part of her she couldn’t escape. A part she took on with grim acceptance.
But when he touched her, she saw something different. She saw his regret, his shame. And when she saw it in his eyes, she could see how unfair it was to have such a limited perspective. To look at her own body and hate it the way that she did.
Yes, the accident had changed her. It had changed them. But just as she had said to Jonathan, they were both more than this one mistake. Than this one moment in time.
All of the pain, all of the fear, all of the shame was tied to a day that was well behind them now. It seemed like such a shame, such a waste, to sacrifice every year that came after it on the altar of that one day. That one moment.
It was impossible not to be changed by it. But it was tragic to be destroyed by it.
She reached down, moving her thumb along the edge of his jaw, tracing that square line to the center of his chin. Then, she tilted his face upward.
The stark, raw regret in his eyes almost made her want to turn away. To let them both hide in the dark. It was easier. It let them both hold their pain close while they sought pleasure in each other’s bodies. This forced them to open the vein, share it. It wasn’t only her being exposed by this. Not only her scars, but his.
It cost her deeply to admit that. To acknowledge that he had been hurt by this too. That his mistakes had caused him pain. She had wanted to claim every last bit of it. Had wanted to make it all about her. Had wanted so badly for him to be a one-dimensional villain.
But now she just saw them for what they were. Two people who were wounded. Who had been wounded long before her car had hit that tree.
He wrapped his arms around her, his hands pressed against her lower back. He turned his face into her, his stubble-roughened cheek scraping against the tender skin on her stomach. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him there, holding them both together for just a moment.
She wanted to hold on to him forever. This man, this man whom she had long believed to be the source of all of her pain. This man who was—in this moment—the source of all of her comfort. Right now, everything outside of this room seemed completely uncertain. But there was this. There was him.