Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1) - Jay McLean Page 0,55

I whisper, my lips still on his. He sucks in a sharp breath, holds it there. I run my hand to his collarbone. “Does this hurt?” I ask, finger tracing the reddish-purple mark.

I pull back so I can look into his eyes—eyes glued to mine. With his bottom lip caught between his teeth, he nods, his head falling back when I lean forward, press my lips to the exact spot. His throat bobs with his heavy swallow, and I kiss him there, smiling at the sound he makes.

I feel… free.

Powerful.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m in control of what happens next. I push on his shoulder until he’s on his back, his body held up by his elbows, his eyes watching me through his thick lashes. I kiss between his collarbone and down his chest, my tongue darting out, leaving a trail behind me. His hand claims the back of my head, fingers curling as I move lower, lower. I get to my knees, eyes closed, and lick the line between his perfect abs. I find the top of his boxers, fingers playing with the waistband. I start to pull down, but his hand tightens, tugs gently on my hair. “Ava, stop. Fuck.”

He sits up, his hand still on my nape, keeping me in place. He buries his face in my neck, his shallow breaths heating me. “Fuck,” he says again.

“What’s wrong? Do you not want—”

“No, Ava. Jesus Christ, of course I want that. It’s just… I don’t want this.”

“You don’t want what?”

He settles his forehead against mine, his eyes shut. He takes a few calming breaths, his shoulders heaving. Then he says, “I keep telling myself that I can do this—whatever this is. But we keep straddling the line between friendship and more… and sure, I can keep doing this with you. I can keep waking up every morning wondering whether that day will be a day I get to hold your hand or kiss you or touch you or just speak to you. I can do that every day for the rest of my life, and you’ll be worth it, but… but I don’t want to, Ava. I don’t fucking want to.”

“I can’t give you what you want,” I whisper, tears pricking behind my eyes.

His forehead drops to my shoulder, his single sigh the sound of defeat. He murmurs, “You keep saying that like you know what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looks up now, his eyes locked on mine. “You, Ava. I want you. On your good days and your bad days—especially your bad days. I want you to let me in. I want you to come to me and look at me the way you’re looking at me now, and know that I’m all in. I just want you.” His voice cracks. “God, Ava. I want you so fucking bad, it’s killing me.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

My mind tells me that it’ll never work, that our paths lead to different roads and the only possible outcome is heartbreak, but my heart…

My heart says, “Yes.”

His mouth is on mine before I can take a breath, his strong arms lifting me off my knees and on top of him. Then he rolls us over until he’s over me, his weight held up by his elbows. Every inch of him covers every inch of me, and he’s so warm. So solid. So safe. There’s no pain, physical or otherwise, when his hands drift up my side, along my breast, until he’s palming my neck. Careful of my burns, he places his mouth on my collarbone, licking, tasting, and I can’t breathe, but the good type. The type that comes with excitement and joy and anticipation for what’s to come. My foot makes contact with something on his bed, and I lift my head, look at the source. And then I laugh. I shouldn’t, but I do. It starts as a giggle and turns into an all-out grandpa wheeze laugh. Connor looks up, his eyebrows drawn. “What’s so funny?”

“There’s a basketball in your bed,” I laugh out.

He gets on his knees between my legs, the bulge in his boxers prominent. I try not to stare. I fail. He says, “I told you I sleep with a basketball.”

“I thought you were joking!”

He shakes his head.

My laughter simmers down enough to say, “Show me how you sleep with it.”

“Right now?” he asks, and I nod. He adjusts himself, his hand going