“Don’t fucking say that. I would have done anything for you.” Anger inside me starts to boil over as the storm outside picks up. Rain pelts my windows, thunder rolls constantly over the house, and lightning strikes simultaneously.
“You destroyed me,” Amelia states, emphasizing every word. “You made me believe you never truly loved me. You took a piece of me I wanted to hold on to for a lifetime. You were my first and only love, Aaron. You unfairly made a decision for the both of us and took any chance of me being able to rectify what you so wrongfully stole from me.”
Hearing the pain in her voice, the way she struggles to get the words out, my heart breaks into a million pieces. Leaning against a wall, I let out a heavy breath. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” I rub my eyes with my palms. “I was so fucked in the head, Amelia. I nosedived after you left. Racer and Tucker are the only reason I’m not living in a gutter somewhere.”
Amelia shakes her head, tears spilling from her eyes. “You caused us both so much pain when all you needed to do was talk to me.” It wasn’t that easy. Why can’t she see it wasn’t that simple?
“I was too damn ashamed. I’d rather push you toward your dream than have you push me away.”
“I loved you, Aaron. I never would’ve pushed you away. I wanted to make room in my life around you, because you were the center of it.”
“Why? Why did you want me?” I ask, needing some kind of reasoning. I’ve never felt like the center of anyone’s life. I revolved around my mom’s moods and selfless achievements. Every time she told me or others how selfless she’d been, I always felt as though I was a thorn in her side. The child she had to keep, had to give a shitty life . . . as if it was all my fault. As if I was the root of selfishness. So although I’d felt touches of importance being loved by Amelia, I never felt I deserved it. That . . . significance. And even though she said I broke her heart, that she would’ve made room for me, I was—again—simply the recipient of generosity. She moved on. Her heart had been broken, but she moved on and now loves someone else. How can she say I was her world if she so easily moved on? So, fucking why? “Why was I so damn important to you?” I sound angry, but I can’t temper the fire inside me. “What could I offer you that no one else could?”
The anger igniting her words dissipates as she studies me. Her eyes soften, and her shoulders slump. Confused, she walks toward me until she has me pinned against the wall. With trepidation, her hand connects with my jaw, her gaze trained on mine. “Did you really think you had nothing to offer?” she asks quietly. “Did you have that much self-doubt that you truly didn’t think you were good enough to be with me?” I nod, my throat too damn tight to answer. A lone tear streaks down her cheek. “That makes me so sad, Aaron, because you gave me the world. You taught me to be carefree, to live freely, to experience everything firsthand. You instilled adventure in my life. You showed me what it felt like to be passionately loved. You were my first, but you showed me that being intimate could be an all-consuming act of being in love with another human. Never once did I care about the material things when it came to our relationship, because what I cared most about what this.” She presses her hand against my heart as her other hand holds my jaw.
My breath hitches in my chest as her warm body presses against mine. I can’t help it. I can’t stop my body from reacting to hers. There is no way I can keep my hands off her. I bring my hands to her hips where I grip her tightly, fucking reveling in the feel of her again. Everything about this woman has my body and mind begging for one more chance.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, pulling her closer.
Her chest rises and falls against mine, her nipples pebbled and alert as her hand on my chest glides up to my neck where she grips me tightly.
“I’m so fuckin sorry,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against hers. My body tingled with awareness, with how close I am to her. Just inches from taking what I want, what I so desperately need.
Her other hand also finds the back of my neck. Her scent fills my senses, eating me whole, making me yearn so fucking bad that I might burst into flames if I don’t get to taste her, just a little, just for a second.
I feel myself starting to lose control; my will is slipping. God, I want her. I need her. This consuming feeling of claiming her as mine is taking over.
“I’m sorry, too. I wish I’d put up more of a fight. I was so crushed.”
Our noses touch, our lips are so close, so tempting.
My hands find the hem of her shirt and slip underneath, running up her bare back. Her skin is so soft, just as I remembered. Silky and smooth, my palm presses against her back as it goes higher and higher until it’s between her shoulder blades. No fucking bra. I glance down and spot a small strip of her skin peeking out from where her shirt is lifted. I want to taste that strip of skin, run my tongue along it and then dip lower.
Tempting the thin ounce of self-control I have left in me, I move my hands until they’re at her ribcage. My thumbs rub her skin, so close to her breasts but not close enough. Her breath hitches, and she shifts in my embrace, moving closer as she exhales, the tiniest of moans accompanying it.
What would she do if I kissed her, if I moved my hands a few more inches and held her breasts? Would she care? Would she be mad? Or would she lose control like I’m about to?
Fuck, I hope she wants this as much as I do.
Speaking low, desperation lacing my voice, I say, “I wish you’d put up more of a fight too.” But I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have conceded. I was blind to the unfairness of life, of my life, and wouldn’t have moved from that point. The bottom line would have been the same, no matter what. She. Deserved. More.
I pull her in even closer and lick my lips. She does the same. Her intentions are as clear as mine. I bend to her lips, my heart beating so rapidly I’m afraid I’ll fall over. I move those last inches forward then a loud boom of thunder erupts over the house, shaking the bones of the foundation and scaring us both, putting distance between our intimate embrace and hitting us with a fresh dose of reality.
We almost fucking kissed.
We almost kissed when Amelia isn’t mine to kiss.
When I spot her over on the other side of the living room, her hand is in her hair, her eyes looking a little wild and her body buzzing.
We make eye contact, and I’m tempted to stalk over to her, replicate our hold, and kiss her, kiss her so fucking hard, but I hold back because there is some serious regret hiding behind those expressive eyes of hers, and the last thing I want is for her to regret me, to regret us.
“We almost kissed,” she says in disbelief. “God, I almost kissed you.”
“I’m sorry—”
“What the hell were we thinking?”
“Well, I don’t think—”
“You had your hand up my shirt.” She points at me with an accusatory finger.
Trying to lighten the mood, I say, “Technically it’s my shirt, and it wasn’t like I was grabbing your boob. I was just, uh, making sure your spine was in line.”