Scorch (Virtues & Lies 2) - Page 66
Kicking everything to the side, Christopher lifts me into his arms again, and without a second of pause, he steps into the bath. I have no idea how he doesn’t drop me, but as he lowers into the hot water, he puts me down, turning me so that my back is to his front. And when we’re sitting in the bath, he makes no move to touch me. We both sit in awkward silence, too stiff and uncomfortable, until I can’t take it anymore. I need to know what he’s thinking. What this means because he signed those divorce papers in front of me and made a point of driving the point home by walking away.
But here we are.
Chapter 19
Arabella
Here we are.
This distance is so foreign to us. It doesn’t feel right, and the longer we sit, the heavier my leaden heart feels. I watch as his large hands curl around the edge of the bath, veins running up the back of them to his wrists, thick ropes twinning over hard muscle.
I catch the glint of his wedding band in the corner of my eye, and my fingers itch to trace the dark metal. The ache at my fingertips, to touch him, makes me all the more aware of how still and quiet Christopher is behind me.
My thoughts kick into overdrive, and before I can think of what I’m doing, a soft sob bursts from my lips. “Do you hate me?”
I want to take the words back instantly. Why else would he sign those papers?
His left hand lifts from the edge of the bath and winds in my hair. It’s so tight that the roots wince and my breath snags. Without warning he pulls, tilting my head to the side, and his mouth comes down on mine so hard that I have to brace myself to the sides of the bath.
Biting and sucking on my lips, he pulls at my hair until I’m moaning loudly, my lips parting to let him in. His tongue licks over mine with a groan so deep and feral that it wracks down my body to my curling toes.
Pulling away with a scrape of my lip, he says, “I want to…but no.”
The rasp in his voice quivers with his hard breaths, and every part of me is vibrating.
He doesn’t hate me.
“Do you love me? Still?” Trepidation has me turning away. I can’t bear the possibility that he doesn’t love me either. Anxiety fills my chest, and holding my breath is the only thing I can do not to break down with the uncontrolled sobs that burn my insides.
The caress of his hand is so tender along my jaw as he tilts my face so he can look me in the eyes. His narrowed gaze softens, perusing my face.
“I don’t want to…but yes. More than ever.”
Bringing his face closer to mine, he skims the tip of his nose over mine. His breaths bathe my skin in a warmth that rivals that of the summer sun.
After my hateful words and my mistakes…
“How? Why?”
He stills, quietly watching me. You’d think he’s considering what to say, but certainty burns in his eyes.
“There are things in this universe that are quite simply meant to be.” Murmuring, he tucks my hair behind my ear. “We are meant to be, Arabella, and nothing will ever change that. Not you. Not me. Nothing. No one.”
“But you…those papers…” Tears slip down my face. I can’t stop them with how painful it is to recall how easily he signed them. “You signed them.”
Quirking his brow with a low chuckle, he swipes another tear from the corner of my eye with his thumb. “Did I?”
“You did it in front of me.” Pulling my knees to my chest, I turn so that I can see him better. “I saw you.”
“Come.” Christopher gets up. Water sluices down his body, and his underwear fails to conceal his heavy erection.
My mouth dries at the sight. What a stupid moment to let my libido get the better of me, but when you’re starved of something that is being snatched from you…every second counts. It’s a gift I can’t spit on.
Glancing down, his throat bobs with a coarse swallow, the short, dark stubble doing nothing to soften his sharp jawline.
How many times have we found ourselves in this position? My knees bent at his feet, and all that’s inside me calling out to all that’s inside him. This thing between us pulling taut with an ache so deep it feels impossible to soothe.
Reaching down, Christopher traces his thumb around my forehead, following my hairline to my jaw, and as he bends, the light behind him gleams like a halo above his head, a contrast to all the shadowed lines and ridges of his body. He could belong in a secular painting somewhere in a church. A depiction of a hardened saint. A relentless and unforgiving god.
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