Keep (Seaside Pictures 2)

Our bodies pressed close together, he held me in his arms and kissed my forehead. “You may have second thoughts about sleeping with a virgin.”

“Or I may think it’s the best thought I’ve ever had.”

“Ever, hmm?”

“Ever, ever.” I nodded, needing to taste him again, almost losing my nerve when I felt his length press against me.

It had been a while.

And none of them had been like Zane.

There would never be anyone like Zane.

“I want this, with you…” Zane sounded hesitant. “But, Fallon, you can’t say anything, alright? In my own time I’ll tell people if I even need to, but right now, the focus needs to be on the movie and the album, not my sex life. Can you do that for me?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“Because I know I can trust you with my secrets, and if I can trust you with those…I can trust you with this.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Zane

PLEASE, GOD, DON’T LET me be wrong about her, about what I felt, what I saw when I looked into her trusting eyes.

I wanted her physically.

I craved her emotionally.

To be able to stay in a hotel room by myself—had been like defeating a giant. She had no way of knowing that, but what do you say to the person who, inch by inch, holds your hand while you tell them about the invisible monsters, the type that, to anyone else, make no sense at all, but to you, are crippling?

I knew there was no going back.

From this scene, her gorgeous naked little body. She was at least a foot shorter than me, curvy in all the places that made a guy want to stop and take notice, her ass round.

Her color was bright as she visibly swallowed and then licked her lips. “Zane, you can trust me.”

“Okay.” My voice shook, and like peeling off layers and layers of clothing as winter turns into summer, I felt myself internally shed every single wall I’d ever put up when it came to sex—to sharing that part of my soul with someone else. I left them on the floor.

The death of my grandmother.

The abandonment I felt at my sisters refusing to contact me until I got famous.

The shame at being accused of raping someone, when I was the near victim.

The anxiety of crowds and their demanding screams, and how it always reminded me of my own screams in my bedroom after my grandmother died.

When I was locked in my closet.

For two days without food.

Because the lady at the orphanage couldn’t get me to stop crying, and I was bothering the other students.

I had one bag of marshmallows with me.

And a coloring book.

The head lice that followed.

The sickness of wearing clothes that weren’t mine.

The itchy feeling of being watched.

I let out a little gasp as it all fell, crashing metaphorically to the floor over and over and over again like pieces of ice hitting the ground.

“My God.” Fallon covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

Not how I envisioned my first experience being.

Except I think—she was crying for me, for the person I felt like I had to be all the time. And for the scared little boy, I still was.

She grabbed my hand and linked her fingers with mine, as tear after tear slid down her face. “Let me love you.”

Nobody had ever said that to me before.

They all wanted to screw me.

They wanted me to screw them.

They wanted. They wanted. They wanted.

They took. They took. They took.

They stole. They stole. They stole.

I nodded, hands trembling as I cupped her face and brushed a soft kiss across her lips, my tongue tasting the salt of her tears.

Tears shed for me.

She tugged me toward the bedroom. Of course she’d know where it was; she cleaned the rooms.

The moonlight cast a silver glow through the partially open window as the wind lifted the curtains in an ethereal dance of shadows across her face.

She took the lead.

I let her.

Not because I couldn’t.

But because she asked me.

She asked permission, to show me something that nobody ever had. How could I deny her that? How?

I would like to think, my life truly began, when Fallon grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the bed, then slowly crawled on top of me and kissed me.

She kissed my eyes.

My ears.

My nose.

My mouth.

My eyes again.

As the tears dried across her beautiful face, her eyes lit up with wonder. More kisses slid down my chest, driving me crazy, making me want to take the moment from her and sink into her.

That’s what I wanted.

But it wasn’t what I deserved.

Or her.

So I let her keep kissing.

And when I thought I was going to lose my mind, when her mouth found the one part of me that I’d never let any girl touch.

I let myself go.

I closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and let her love me.

And when that same mouth trailed farther down my body, only to come back up as the chill of the wind hit every wet kiss, I shivered and trembled.

My hands roamed across her back, and I lifted her up just as I slid down, my mouth pleasing her in ways I knew my hands never could.

She moaned, arching back against me, her hair a tangled mess of darkness as it slid against my stomach.

We didn’t talk.

Words have a way of shattering precious moments in time, moments where talking won’t ever enhance the situation.