Renascence Ch. 03

"Fuck," he said, looking lost. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm sorry."

"So fucking comfort me," I said, letting out a half laugh, half cry.

He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. He was nervous; that was his tell.

"Grace..."

"Do it," I dared him, tasting tears. "If you're sorry then you have to prove it."

"Come here," he said quietly. He didn't sound conflicted, just defeated.

I crawled over and rather than lean into his open arm for a hug I slid onto his lap, straddling him. His eyes widened in shock, but I didn't feel any remorse. I needed to prove my point. I needed him to recognize that this wasn't his fault, that I was the one who kept initiating and fucking everything up.

"Now tell me," I whispered, bringing my face close to his. "Who is manipulating who?"

"Nightmare," he said huskily. "You really are a nightmare."

"You like it," I challenged, losing control again.

"I'm gonna regret this," he said. I felt his big hands span my small waist, gripping and then jerking my body forward, crushing his lips against mine, kissing me like he didn't give a fuck because really, neither of us did. We moaned like we didn't give a fuck, hands roaming like we didn't give a fuck, getting hard, getting wet because that was the only fuck we wanted to give.

I drew back for air, my stomach clenching at the sight of the lust in his eyes, mirroring mine, letting that lust overpower our inhibitions because we were really, truly fucked.

I slid his coat back from his chest, watching for his reaction, wondering when he would take me by the wrists and throw me out, but all he did was slow his breathing, his hands closing tighter on my waist. Next I loosened his tie and slid it off his neck, dropping it somewhere on the seat beside me. His intense gaze made me spasm right down to the core, like I could come just from looking at him. I started to undo the buttons of his shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest. I traced his collar bone with my finger, making him groan.

"Wait," he said, and moved one hand to support my back and used the other to unzip my jacket. I shrugged it off.

"You're going to ruin me," he said, pressing his lips to my throat. I felt his hand slip under my shirt, palms hot against my back, stroking up and down, making me feel so damn good that I had to close my eyes.

"Ruin me back," I said, arching my back as he kissed his way up my neck and along my jaw. "It's only fair."

He chuckled, his breath warm on my ear before he nipped at my pulse point, growling when I moaned, his teeth sinking in just enough to hurt but not enough to break skin, sucking the hollow beneath my jaw, leaving his mark. Desire ruptured through me, the pain carrying right down between my legs until all I felt was the slick heat between my legs. I put my hands on his chest, steadying myself as his deft fingers expertly unhooked my bra. The fact that he'd been able to do it with one hand was so hot to me, like it was a mattress warranty for experience, guaranteeing that this guy knew what he was doing.

My body was so tense. I was waiting for him to cup my breasts, to run those scarred palms over my sensitive nipples, to make me cry out, to make my pussy throb with need—but it didn't happen.

Instead my phone rang.

We both jumped, moving to find the source of the noise when — clonk!

Yep, we banged our heads together. I felt like I was in a goddamn movie.

His arms were so long that he had no trouble reaching the floor for my jacket. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the screen.

"It's my mom."

"Take the call."

I nodded and took a deep breath.

"Hello?"

"Honey, where are you?"

Gabe reached out and curved a hand around my head, massaging my sore forehead with his thumb. I winced, my heart catching. It was such a tender gesture that it threw me off.

"Um—"

"There's a storm coming. I don't want you getting snowed in at that school."

"Okay, I'll let the teacher know."

"I love you, honey. Come home as soon as you can."

"Love you too, Mom."

Mom never missed an opportunity to say that she loved me. After the accident it had become almost habitual, like she couldn't even let me go to the bathroom without saying it just in case I died in there or something.

"Your lips," Gabe said, his free thumb rubbing over them. "Did I do this to you?"

"What?" They felt swollen when I touched them. "Yeah. All you."

"Mm, good," he murmured, and I really, truly, seriously didn't know if I was dreaming or not. I just watched him with my lips parted, feeling the pads of his thumbs massaging my temple and running over my lips. He looked entranced, his eyes focused on my mouth like he'd never seen one before.

"I have to go," I said even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

"I know."

It was such a tragedy that he had to hook my bra back on for me. We'd been so close to crossing that new line, to touching each other someplace that was private, someplace intimate that was meant only for the eyes of someone that you trusted.

But now that moment was gone.

I helped him button his shirt back up, my fingers shaking because the way he was looking at me was making my heart squeeze. It was a soft sort of look—affectionate, almost. No one had ever looked at me that way before.

"We can't do this again."

I wasn't surprised by his words. That was how lust worked; it clouded your judgment, turning you into a fool, into somebody new, somebody reckless and insane and dreadfully, deceptively impulsive.

I couldn't fault him for it. I wasn't like this either, wasn't this bold or forward, wasn't the type to have the courage to tease, to seduce, to climb onto mens' laps and surrender all control. I was shy, the quiet type, the kind of person who was afraid of being called on in class because even though I always had the right answer, there was that slight possibility that I could've gotten it wrong—and that manner of thinking gave me enough anxiety to hold me back from ever taking any chances.

I was an over-thinker, an overachiever, an over-everything, but I'd thought none of this through.

And neither had he.

Gabe had advocated for my future that morning, telling me that this ends now, that I couldn't keep sabotaging myself. I would have to do the same now; it was my turn to advocate for his future, my turn to protect him from himself.

"Don't tell," I whispered. "Not the school board, not the principal, not anybody."

"You know I have to," he said softly.

"You should return this moral compass of yours and get your money back because I think it's fucking defective. This is suicidal."

"Grace," he said, smiling so sadly that it damn near broke my fucking heart. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but that isn't the way the world works. This," he said, his lips brushing softly against mine, "is a breach of my contract."

"Don't you try and tell me how the world works. We both know that nobody in this entire fucking planet is perfect so you listen to me," I said, shifting closer until our noses were touching, forcing him to look me right in the eye, "We are going to forget about this. You are going to keep teaching. Nothing. Will. Fucking. Happen."

"Grace—"

"Non-negotiable. I'm not going to argue with you. I hate fighting."

"I'm not fighting you, Grace. You're fighting me."

"I'm fighting for you."

He took my face in his hands and let out a hollow, exasperated laugh.

"Why are you like this?"

"If you stopped playing the bullshit 'honor' card then I wouldn't have to be like this."

He kissed me, slowly this time, gently as if I was a butterfly that he was afraid was going to flutter away if he wasn't careful. The kiss wasn't hurried, wasn't rough, wasn't anything but warm, like milk and honey, delicious and sweet.

It was a kiss goodbye.

"Promise me," I whispered when he pulled back. "Promise you won't tell."

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes unmoving, thinking deeply. Finally he spoke.

"Alright, Grace. If that's what you want," he said with a sigh. "But we—"

"Can't do this again, I know."

Sometimes setting boundaries were like setting fires. I knew this one was going to burn.

There was no point in continuing the conversation after that; it was over. I opened the car door, wriggled off his lap and held my hand out for my bag. When he passed it to me I turned and left, forcing myself not to look back, not to prolong the inevitable because when something brings you down you are supposed to let go.

On the drive home I had one hand on the steering wheel; the other was on my ribs, counting one, two, three...