When Sparks Fly

We both groan at the feel of his erection against me. In all the weeks since we’ve become intimate, we’ve never had sex. The awkwardness of my cast seemed to be a good enough reason for Declan to hold off. But I suspect there are other reasons at play. And now there are new lines being crossed, and stepping over this one will invariably change things even more. In some ways I’ve been okay with that invisible line because I’m scared too. Aware that me wanting to have sex with Declan means I have to acknowledge how deep our connection goes.

He pushes up on one arm, eyes flashing with heat and need. “Is this a good idea?”

I ease a hand down his back, settling my palm against the base of his spine, and roll my hips. “It feels like a great idea.”

He drops his head, nuzzling into my neck on a low moan. His fingers flex, thumb brushing along the edge of my jaw. His back rises and falls with each labored breath, but he doesn’t lift his hips or push off me. Instead, he grinds against me and makes a noise that sounds somewhere between desire and torment.

“Deck?” I turn my head and press my lips to his temple.

His pained, needy gaze meeting mine. “I don’t know if you’re ready for this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I am and you won’t.” I stroke his cheek, recognizing that it’s him who needs the reassurance. “It’s been weeks of you and me.”

He nods, his tongue dragging across his bottom lip. “I just want to take care of you. I don’t want to stop this, even if I should.”

“What are we doing here, Deck?” It’s a question I’ve been trying to find the answer to for a while now, and I’ve asked it once before but have been too afraid to broach it again.

“I want you. I want to be with you,” he says quietly, uncertainty and fear swimming behind his eyes, emotions I understand only too well.

We’ve been safe in a bubble of us. Hiding from the world while I healed. Declan has always kept sex and feelings separate, but I’m not so sure he can do that with me. And I don’t want him to.

“I want us to be together. I want to be an ‘us.’ We don’t have to label it for everyone else, we can just be ‘us’ together for now.” He strokes my cheek tenderly. “I think I can be good to you. I want to be good for you.” There’s so much weight in those words. It’s so much more than a socially constructed label that tells the outside world who we are to each other. He’s my best friend, he’s been my rock for years, and in recent weeks he’s become my everything.

I pull his mouth back down to mine and we kiss, soft and slow as we grind against each other. Eventually, when we’re both panting and desperate for more, Declan grabs a condom from the nightstand and rolls it down his length.

He doesn’t stretch out over top of me, though. Instead, he rearranges me so I’m sitting in his lap, facing him, legs stretched out behind him. I brace my forearms on his shoulders as he lifts me with one arm, positions himself at my entrance, and lowers me slowly onto his erection.

My eyes roll up and I moan his name. It’s been so long since I’ve been connected to anyone so wholly, physically or emotionally. And it’s never been as intense as this.

“You feel so good, Ave. So fucking perfect.” He rocks me over him, a slow and steady climb to the peak and a graceful swan dive into bliss. It’s gentle and intimate and terrifyingly real.

I don’t just love him. I’m in love with him.

22

STICKY LABELS

AVERY

Two weeks after the cast comes off my arm, I lose the one on my leg as well. My calf muscles have atrophied to the point where it looks like my left leg belongs to a preteen girl, complete with eight weeks of hair growth.

I don’t get Declan to drive me to Spark House after the appointment. Instead, I ask him to take me straight home.

I lock myself in the bathroom, fill the tub with bubbles, and have myself a good solid cry. Sure, I’m relieved that the cast is off, but I’m also disturbed by how horrible my leg looks. Especially the much longer, uglier scar that runs up the outside of my ankle, on the opposite side of the original scar from the soccer injury I sustained as a teen.

The scars I can deal with. I’m already aware that heels are pretty much a no-go, at least for the foreseeable future. Even when I can wear them again, they’ll only be for special occasions, and they certainly won’t be London’s borrowed stilettos. I’ve never been huge on heels anyway, so it really shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.