When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,62
my thighs with force, the pain adding a layer of sensation I didn’t know I craved. I gripped a handful of his hair and he groaned, working over me like a man possessed.
“I’m coming,” I breathed, one hand planted on the bed, gripping the sheets, the other in his hair, holding myself in that perfect delirium that was Holden.
“Come,” he breathed between deep, long sucks. “Come for me, baby…”
Baby…fuck.
My body obeyed. The cresting wave crashed, and I gritted my teeth, spilling myself into his mouth. He took it all, slowing his sucking strokes, dragging his tongue up and down my length.
“Jesus Christ…” I fell back on the bed, drained and yet alive in a way I’d never felt before.
Holden climbed up and flopped on his back beside me.
“River Whitmore,” he murmured to the ceiling. “There was nothing fucking casual about that.”
Chapter Thirteen
We lay for long minutes in the dark, listening to the rain and our own slowing breaths. My body hummed and I could feel River everywhere he’d touched me. Still taste him on my mouth and on my body that felt warm and safe for the first time.
Too good. It won’t last. It’s too good…
River was first to move, reaching for me, but I quickly went to the bathroom to clean myself up. I washed my hands and studied my reflection. My hair stood on end where River’s hand had grasped and pulled. Redness stained my mouth from his stubble—heated kisses that were fading under an onslaught of icy whispers.
This isn’t real life. It’s only a timeout. It’s not real.
I came back out and slipped on my underwear while River wordlessly took his turn in the bathroom. I sat against the pillows, feeling the cold creep in, and wishing I’d stashed a flask or a fifth in the nightstand drawer.
River returned and I forced myself to uncross my arms and take the grimace off my face. But he felt the sudden tension; he was too damn sensitive. And kind. And considerate…
He drew on his underwear and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to me. “You good?”
“Never better. You?”
“Yeah. I mean… I am if you are.”
God, River…
My heart had been shattered a long time ago but now River was seeping in through the cracks. Alarm bells clanged at the intrusion and my thoughts began to race, one after the other. Like whizzing cars, crushing River’s warmth right out of me.
“You can’t stay,” I blurted.
“I wasn’t going to,” he said, the hurt evident in his voice.
He drew on his jeans and shirt while I fought against my own brain, the fight-or-flight mechanism that was triggered when anyone showed me the slightest bit of kindness or care. The silence was unbearable.
“I told you,” I said, pathetic and desperate. “It has to be casual.”
“I remember,” he said, his voice low.
More silence. I wished he’d yell at me. Scream. Tell me I was being an asshole and fucking up this perfect night. But River dressed and then stood for a minute, jaw set, his gaze on the ground.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said finally.
He was calm and still, while I was the storm. I wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep tangled up in him, but the cold had found me. I crossed my arms tighter to keep the trembling from showing.
“What am I doing?” I asked. “I’m not doing anything. It’s late—”
“Holden.”
My mouth fell shut.
“It’s okay,” River said, his blue eyes soft. “I get it. Or…I think I do.”
He didn’t, I thought, tears threatening. River had no idea how good he was, or how his goodness bashed up against everything broken in me.
I’ll just ruin him too…
“But I don’t regret tonight,” he said. “I hope you don’t either.”
“I don’t,” I said, defiant against the cold. “I never will.”
River nodded in the dimness, then turned to go. He stopped at the bedroom door. “You going to be around later?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Call me if…” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Just call me. Or I’ll call you. That’s allowed, right? It’s Christmas.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. I’ll call you later.”
He hesitated, at war with himself. And then he left. Rain smattered the windows and I let River go. I sent him out into the storm.
It’s better, whispered a cold voice from Alaska. Better for him.
I practically ran to the kitchen. In the freezer was a new bottle of Ducasse—an early Christmas present to myself. I poured a shot, then took the bottle and glass to my