His hazel eyes flick over my face, taking me in, then his hand moves to my hair. His fingers clasp the back of my neck, and he pulls me to him. Our lips connect. He kisses me with the desire of a man starved for love. Despite the swelling split I feel along his lip, he ignores whatever pain he’s feeling and hungrily devours me, his tongue stroking mine possessively, until I’m breathless, meeting each motion with equal passion.
My body sinks into him, and then I’m sliding onto his lap, my arms finding their place around his neck. He releases a hiss against my lips, and I pull back.
“Shit. Did I hurt you?”
He licks his lips, eyes trapping mine. “In the best way.” Then he palms both of my thighs. His fingers grip my jeans and yank me closer to him.
I smile and kiss him. Like my lips, my body, my soul have always belonged in his possession. I was just waiting for the right moment for us to click into place. To find home.
“So fucking stubborn,” I mumble as I push my key into the deadbolt.
“A hot bath, a few packs of ice, sleep, and I’ll be fine, Mel.” Boone leans against the doorway, looking like he’s about to pass out.
“We’re going to have to get something straight,” I say, pushing the door open. I wrap his arm around my shoulder as we head inside. “I’m in charge here, okay? Just always listen to me and this will work out just fine.”
He chuckles, then winces. “Shit, my ribs feel like shattered glass.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you let ogres use you as a punching bag.” I walk us to the couch, and Boone flops onto the cushion.
Glancing around nervously, trying to figure out what he needs, I say, “I’ll run a bath. But I don’t think hot water is good…for like the swelling.” I take off toward the bathroom, my heart in my throat.
Somehow, I convinced him to at least come back to my apartment so I could look after him for the night. He won’t go to the hospital, stubborn ass. I even suggested having the cab drop us off at Stoney. They have doctors, and everyone knows him there. Loves him there. They could help him.
But he doesn’t want to tarnish his image. He’s still so concerned with how people see him; the illusion. Or maybe he took one too many blows to the head. Regardless, if the pain becomes unbearable, I’ll drag his ass somewhere tomorrow.
I flip the faucet on and let the cool water run over my hand. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I stare blankly at the tiles, too many thoughts and questions and uncertainties filling my thoughts.
I hear him enter, and I look up. “It’s okay,” he says. He drops the toilet lid and sits, now shirtless, his fighting shorts stained with blood. “I know why you left, and I get it. You don’t owe me an apology, and you don’t have to explain. I should have told you from the start.”
I shake my head. “Don’t go there. We’re already past all that, okay? Whatever guilt you harbor, just know I see the truth.” I gaze up at him, my eyes holding his, unwavering. “I just want one thing answered.”
He wraps his arm around his stomach, bracing himself as he leans closer to me. “What?”
“The story you tell at Stoney, it’s about Hunter, not you. It’s Hunter’s user parents, and Hunter’s user mom who wrecked while high, but the child didn’t walk away from that crash, did he?”
Boone’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, his face strained from the effort and pain. “Yes. It’s how I wish the story actually ended.”
I nod slowly. “Then that’s all I need to know.”
His mouth parts, ready to add something, but I stand and press my fingers over his lips. “Let’s get you in the tub. You smell like a backyard brawl.”
Despite his desire to set the record straight on something important to him, he doesn’t say another word. I lower my hand, and he allows me to help him into a standing position. As I examine the damage inflicted on his body—the red welts, dark bruises, fresh scrapes—I run my hands along his skin. His abs. His chest. Feeling for broken bones or tender spots sensitive to touch.
He accepts my examination of his body with tense muscles. After I made the connection to him and Hunter, his story he tells at Stoney, I understand why he chose celibacy. Why he chose, instead, to accept the touch of pain rather than of affection.
The night his son was killed in that crash, he was off getting high—and getting laid. Which, in itself isn’t a crime. But while his son was taking his last, labored breath, Boone was panting in pleasure. For him, this was the ultimate wrong, which needed an ultimate right by contrast.
He had to find a way not to be that selfish person who thinks only of himself and his wants. His high, his fix—whether it be drugs or sex. I get it now. And I think of that moment we shared on my couch and wish I knew then.
I would’ve been more delicate. Or maybe I would’ve told him how his touch freed a desire buried so deep within me, I didn’t know it even existed. That it was more than getting off; it was a connection I’ve never experienced with anyone else before.
But right now, I just want my touch to convey my respect for him.
“Melody…” His voice is husky and raw. I look up, and his eyes are closed. His jaw tense. “I don’t know when I’ll ever not feel…guilty. I wasn’t very good to Ashely—Hunter’s mom. Even if we weren’t a couple, technically…I should’ve been there for her more. Helped out more. I damn sure shouldn’t have walked out when she was asking to me take our son for the night.” He opens his eyes, and I can see his pain pouring out through every irritated vein clouding them.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able just to be with you without the shame that follows…” he trails off.
“Shh,” I whisper. “One step at a time, right?” His swallows hard, and I place my hand in his. “I’m not expecting anything else. One day, one minute, one second at a time.”