Page 280 of Faking the Goal

I lower my forehead to hers, breathing her in while I fight every desperate emotion threatening to rise out of me. "You have me."

She kisses me first.

There is nothing hesitant about it this time. Her fingers twist into my hair and drag me closer as her mouth crashes against mine, rough and desperate, like she needs to feel something powerful enough to drown out everything else. A groan tears from my throat, but I let her set the pace, let her decide how close, how hard, how much.

I meet every frantic kiss with one of my own, holding her securely without trapping her, reminding her with every breath between us that she is here, that she is safe, and that none of this belongs to anyone but her.

She claws at my back, not out of lust but like she's afraid I'll vanish. Her nails dig in and I welcome the pain.

My mouth move down, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses across her collarbone, then lower, until my lips close around one of her nipples. I suck hard, my tongue flicking against the sensitive bud, and she arches her back, her fingers tangling in my hair.

I don't stop. I can't. My mouth move lower, kissing her stomach, her hips, until my breath is hot against the slick folds of her pussy. I spread her thighs wider, my hands gripping her hips, and my eyes lift to meet hers.

"Is this okay?"

She nods, but I wait.

"Yes," she whispers. "Please."

I bury my face in her and worship her with a hunger that's almost reverent, letting her know with every breath and every flick of my tongue that she is still here, still wanted, still whole. I don't look away, not even when she throws her head back, eyes squeezed shut and hand clapped over her mouth to keep from screaming. I work her open with my mouth, slow at first, drawing out every shiver, every gasp, every desperate plea that escapes her lips. She tastes like salt and sweat and some sweet flavor that's just her, and I let it fill my mouth and drown out everything else.

"Fuck," she moans, her voice broken, and I growl against her.

She tries to twist away when it gets too much, but I won't let her. I lock my arms around her thighs and hold her steady, gentle but unyielding, forcing her to take every wave of pleasure like it's medicine. I flatten my tongue and drag it over her clit, slow at first, then faster, until she's shaking so hard the bedframe rattles. Every time she tries to hide her face, I reach up and grab her chin, force her to look at me, to stay here in the moment and not drift off somewhere dark and cold.

I want her to know she's not alone in her body—that every part of her deserves to be worshipped, deserves to be celebrated.

I want to give her a new memory, one where her body is something precious, something to be cherished, not a weapon or a crime scene. I want to replace every scar, every bruise, every ugly memory with something soft and golden and good.

She starts to come apart, her hips bucking against my face, her hands tearing at the sheets, and I know she's close. I slow down, not to tease but to give her time to savor it. To show her that she's allowed to take pleasure, that she doesn't have to apologize for it, that her body can be something pure and holy. When she finally lets go, it's a tidal wave, a full-body shudder that leaves her limp and gasping, tears streaming down her face.

I kiss my way back up her body, slow and gentle. I want to kiss her better even though I know I can't. I want to stitch her back together with nothing but my mouth. When I finally reach her lips, she's still crying, but the sound is different now—softer, almost hopeful.

"You're so beautiful, baby. The most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on."

I kiss her tears, one by one, until she starts to laugh through the sobs. Then I press my forehead to hers and breathe her in, my hands trembling because I've never felt this much and not drowned in it.

"I want you inside me." My name on her lips is barely a sound at all—threadbare, trembling, stripped of everything but need. "Please."

I reach past her to the nightstand, tear the wrapper with my teeth, and roll the condom on slowly, giving her time to change her mind.

I shift slowly into position, and when my tip presses against her entrance I stop, holding myself there, my eyes finding hers. "If you need me to stop," I say, my voice fraying at the edges with the effort of holding back, "just say so. One word and I will."

She nods, eyes wide and wet and full of trust.

"I won't want you to stop," she whispers. "So please—don't make me wait any longer." Something in her expression tightens with impatience and want.

I slide into her slow, careful as hell, and the sound she makes is so raw and honest it almost splits me open. We move together, not for pleasure but for obliteration, for the chance to burn away what's left of the night and come out the other side clean.

All I want in the world is to show her how beautiful and breakable and immortal she is, and I whisper it into her neck, her hair, the hollow of her throat. I tell her she's brave, that she's strong, that every breath she takes is a fuck-you to the darkness that tried to swallow her whole. I tell her she's not a victim—never has been, never will be.

She's a survivor, a goddamn miracle, and I want to worship her until she finally believes it.

What passes between us afterward belongs only to the two of us—quiet and tender. There is no urgency, no hunger that matters more than her comfort. I hold her through every fragile breath, reminding her again and again that she can stop, that she can stay, that she is in control.

I want to tell her I love her.

The words rise so quickly they burn the back of my throat.