His lips are softer than I expected. A gentle, hesitant trust in that tentative gesture. He is warm and smooth and strong. Questioning.
I shift, wanting to open, wanting to deepen the kiss. Wanting more of the delicious sensation purring over my skin and through my veins. Wanting to push aside the doubt and the terrible memories that push me away from anything good in my life.
His other hand comes up and cups my cheek. Here, he is as rough and rugged as I expected. His hands are not manicured and covered in lotion. They are strong and calloused and completely at odds with everything I am.
I want more. I want very much to go into the darkness with this man and let the world fall away.
A small noise escapes me. Maybe it's desire. Maybe it's want or need in that tiny sound.
I don't expect him to notice. Most guys are pretty tone deaf to that kind of stuff.
But he does. His fingers tense against my skin, a reflexive touch that tells me more about the strength of his own reaction than any words could have.
In an instant, he shifts back, creating space between us. "Sorry," he mumbles.
I want to tell him no, it's okay and please touch me again.
But I can't find the words. They're too heavy, too filled with my own inadequacy and shame for not being strong enough to take what he's offering.
"Don't apologize," I whisper. It is as close to reassuring as I can manage. I'm not sure I could say anything more even if I wanted to.
He swallows and lowers his hand. "I, ah, the offer to walk you home still stands. You know, if you’d like some company."
There is such a sharp sense of loss beating in time with my heart now that I have to get away. I can't do this, no matter how much I might want to. Josh is one of the good ones. Which means I am guaranteed to screw it up somehow.
"Thank you," I whisper. I reach up and cup his cheek. "It's sweet of you to offer." I hesitate. "But I'm meeting friends after work tonight."
I wish it were a lie. I wish I could meet him later and explore the paths and hidden potential in that kiss. But I don't abandon my friends for the first hint of my blood running hot for a guy. "I've got to get back to work." Regret, honest and simple, in that simple sentence.
"Abby?" His voice is a quiet whisper in the darkness.
I turn back, looking over my shoulder at the man cast in shadows and light. "Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
He hesitates. "For everything."
And he is gone, leaving me standing there wondering at the complex mystery that is Josh Douglas.
Chapter 8
Josh
I don’t actually sleep. It doesn't count as sleep if you lie awake in the dark with the room spinning slowly.
I haven't slept well since the war. But I can't tell anyone that. It's not like I'm ashamed of it or anything. It's…If it wasn't for Eli and the guys, I'd probably be a hell of a lot worse off than I am.
My attempt to distract myself away from the burning memories tonight fell flat when Abby begged off a walk home.
It’s not her fault. Who just shows up at someone’s work and says Me Man, You Woman. Me walk you home. And expect everything to go swimmingly.
But the lack of a distraction means I’ve got to figure some shit out or the rest of the night is going to get real froggy real quick. So instead of heading home, I head to the campus fitness center.
I strip and change into my gym clothes, which I keep in a locker I rent for six dollars a month. It's easier than carrying that stuff around with me every time I come on campus, and luckily, tuition comes with a fee for the fitness center that us non-athletes get to use when the Division One teams aren’t using them.
I hit the treadmill and take off at a slow jog. I no longer have to keep up with my division commander, who liked to run marathons for funsies. I thought he was going to kill me on multiple occasions. It was strange how he kept me around. I was his driver. I should have been out running around with the other drivers, but instead, he had me shadowing his aide de camp and keeping him in line.
Damn it. I’m running to avoid the memories or at least run them into exhaustion and instead I crash right into them.
I crank up the speed on the treadmill.
But still. All I can see are Mike’s boots. He’d been standing in them a few minutes before. The tan leather is stained with blood.
We used to joke about what we'd do when we made it home from war. I remember just wanting to get laid.
Mike had just wanted to see his dog. She was some kind of giant Labrador or something.
I wonder if his mom still has her. Or if the dog even knows Mike is never coming home.
Christ, but I don't want to think about Mike. I don't want to think about the goddamned war and the anger and the rage and how f*ck
ing good it felt to unleash hell that day.
Or the shame that washes over me every single time I think about that godawful day.