I Have Lived and I Have Loved - Willow Winters Page 0,90

and my jeans were a little baggy.

God.

I glanced left and right, but no one was there.

Biting my lip, feeling all the right tingles and pleasure filling me, I knew I should get up. We should take this somewhere else, but I was not caring.

This was reckless.

This was stupid.

This was dangerously intoxicating, and with that last thought—I stopped thinking. My hips pressed against his, and he pulled me in, holding me against him and lifting his hips a little to grind against me.

“Fuck, Mac.” He pulled back, his eyes so damned dark I wanted to get lost in them. His left hand slid up my waist, up my arm, around to my front, and lingered between my breasts. They were straining for him, but he didn’t go any farther. He just stayed there, feeling my heartbeat and watching me all the while.

He groaned. “You make me feel things I thought were gone.”

He seemed tormented by that, and I shifted back a little and slid my hand through his hair. It was half-dry, so there was a tiny little bit of a messy curl to it. I loved how it was chaotic.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

His hand went back to my hip, and he cupped me there, jerking me back in place. He fit right, perfect.

I was having a hard time not moving my hips again, rocking on top of him.

He rested his head back against the locker, watching me. “Derek was my best friend, not Kirk.”

“I thought . . .”

He shook his head, his eyes still so dark. “Kirk became my best friend after Derek died, but it was him and me. Even the others—Tom, Nick, and Pete—they knew that. It was me and Derek. Then he died, and God—” He let out an anguished breath, closing his eyes as lines of tension formed around his mouth. “I used to think no one got it. No one understood.”

I shifted back even farther.

My gut was sinking. My chest was starting to tear open.

I had a feeling I knew exactly what he was going to say.

He looked at me. “I thought no one would understand what it felt like to hurt so badly that you just wanted to go with that person.” His hand smoothed down my hip, stopping on top of my leg, and he looked down at it. “Until you.”

He lifted his gaze again. The torment was so real, so haunting, that it hurt me to be there. Every bone in my body started to ache, but not from him. Not because of him. Not in a way that made me want to run from this.

It was an ache because someone else understood.

It was almost as if, for a split second, I got her back. Ryan took Willow’s spot. I took Derek’s spot, and we were the other’s mourned loss for a moment.

Then I gasped, and the feeling left me.

It was back to us. Ryan and me. The ghosts had gone again.

“I didn’t know.”

He shrugged and went back to watching his hand. He traced it up and down the inside of my leg. “He died before basketball season that year. Some told me I didn’t have to participate, if it might be too much for me, but I wanted to. All the others who kept quiet, I knew they were relieved. They wanted me to play. They didn’t care about Derek, but it was him and me. We were co-captains on the JV team. I played varsity too, but I don’t know . . .”

His eyes met mine. The anguish was back. He whispered, “All I did right away was play ball. It was like I was half-trying to forget him, and half-trying to kill myself. You know?”

I nodded. My heart was in my throat. “Yes.”

“But everyone wanted something from me. They wanted me to win. They wanted me to keep going, get faster, learn more drills, learn more tricks. The coaches. The teachers. My friends. My parents—it was all of them. I never got a fucking break. All they wanted was to fucking win. All I wanted was to fucking die.”

“Ryan,” I whispered, moving back to him. I hurt, but this time, the pain wasn’t mine. It was his. I put my hand where his had been, right in the middle of his chest. I felt his heart pounding. It was so fast, almost skipping a beat before going even faster to try to make up for it.

I wanted to say something to calm him, slow his heartbeat, but