After We Collided (After 2)

Her eyes are red from her breakdown during the movie. I knew it would upset her, though I have to admit that I was looking forward to her reaction. Not because I want her to be upset, but because I love how emotionally invested she becomes in things. She opens herself so fully to these fictional forces, whether in a movie or a novel, that she allows them to completely pull her in. It’s captivating to watch.

She emerges from the closet in only shorts and her white lace bra.

Holy shit. I don’t even try to be subtle with my staring.

“Do you think you could wear . . . you know, my shirt?” I ask her. I’m not sure how she’ll feel about that, but I miss seeing her wearing my shirts to bed.

“I would love to.” She smiles and pulls my used shirt off the top of the clothes hamper.

“Good,” I state, trying not to seem too excited. But I watch the way her breasts spill out of the top of the lace as she lifts her arms.

Stop staring. Slow, she wants to go slow. I can go slow . . . slowly . . . in and out of her. Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? Just when I consider looking away, she reaches under the shirt and pulls her bra through one sleeve . . . Christ.

“Something wrong?” she asks and climbs onto the bed.

“No.” I gulp and watch in awe as she pulls her hair out of the ponytail it was in. As it falls onto her shoulders in beautiful blond waves, she shakes her head slowly. She has got to be doing this on purpose.

“Okay . . .” she says and lies on top of the duvet. I wish she would get under it so she wouldn’t look so . . . exposed.

She gives me a quizzical look. “Are you coming to bed?”

I hadn’t realized that I was still standing by the door. “Yeah . . .”

“I know this is a little strange right now, you know, getting used to being together again, but you don’t have to be so . . . distant,” she says nervously.

“I know,” I respond and join her on the bed, holding my hands low and in front of me, to hide things.

“It’s really not as strange as I thought it would be,” she says in a near whisper.

“Yeah . . .” I’m relieved to hear that; I was worried that it wouldn’t be the same as before. That she would be guarded and not the Tess that I love so much. It’s only been a few hours, but I hope things stay this way. It’s so easy with her, so damn easy, yet difficult at the same time.

She lays a small hand on mine and leans onto my chest “You are being so weird. Tell me what’s on your mind,” she requests.

“I’m just glad you’re still here, that’s all.” And I can’t stop thinking about making love to you, I add silently. It’s not just about getting off with Tessa like it always was before—it’s much more. So much more. It’s about being as connected and tied to her as I possibly can be. It’s about her trusting me fully. My chest aches when I think about the trust she had for me but that I shattered.

“That’s not all,” she says, calling me out.

I shake my head in agreement, and she draws a line against my temple and down to the metal in my eyebrow with one finger.

“It’s terrible what I’m thinking,” I admit. I don’t want her to think that she’s an object to me, that I just want to use her. I really don’t want to tell her what’s on my mind, but I can’t continue to keep things from her, I need to be honest with her now and always.

As she looks down at me, her worried expression pains me. “Tell me.”

“I . . . well, I was thinking about . . . fucking . . . I mean making love to you.”

“Oh,” she says softly, her eyes wide.

“I know, I’m a dick,” I groan, wishing I would’ve just lied.

“No . . . no, you’re not.” Her cheeks color red. “I was sort of thinking about the same thing.” She takes her bottom lip between her teeth, taunting me further.

“You were?”

“Yeah . . . I mean it has been a while . . . well, not including Seattle, during which I was belligerently drunk.”

I search her face for the judgment she’s made about my lack of control when she came onto me last weekend, but there’s none there. I see the embarrassment as she recalls the events in her mind. My boxers are growing uncomfortably tight as I remember them, too.

“I don’t want you to think that I’m using you . . . because of everything,” I explain.

“Hardin, out of all the things I’m thinking right now, that isn’t one of them. Granted, it probably should be, but it’s not.”

I was afraid, so afraid that our intimate moments would be forever tainted by my foolishness. “You’re sure? Because I don’t want to fuck up again,” I say.

She answers me by taking my hand and placing in in between her thighs.

Fuck. I grab her waist with my other hand and pull her toward me. Within seconds I’m hovering over her, one knee between her legs. I kiss her neck first, my mouth feverish and quick against her soft skin. She tugs my T-shirt up and lifts her back enough for me to pull it off. My tongue leaves a wet trail behind as I kiss over her collarbone and the swell of her breasts. Her hands pull at my shirt and my sweats simultaneously, and I help her, leaving me in only my boxers.

I want to touch every part of her body, every inch of skin, every curve, every angle. God, she is beautiful. As I lower myself to kiss her stomach, her fingers disappear into my hair, tugging at the roots. I nip at her skin. Her panties and shorts are tossed to the floor. My tongue caresses the skin over her hips.