by S. Massery
“Kind of.”
We’re veering into a sensitive subject matter again, and I can predict how long I will have before she shuts down. Ten, nine, eight…
I blurt out, “I saw you in New York City and almost lost my damn mind. There you were. You were beautiful. Happy. Surrounded by flowers, of all things. I had a flight to London that I couldn’t miss, otherwise I would’ve spent the rest of my time chasing you around that city.” I exhale. “Wyatt wasn’t supposed to die. He was the leader. The strong one. And somehow, something as domestic as an apartment fire ended his life.”
I rub my eyes.
“I lost myself in work for a long time after that—I was in a dark place.”
When I open my eyes, she’s right in front of my face. My gaze goes to her lips—I can’t help it—and she leans forward, pressing those beautiful lips to mine.
She has to feel the same sparks I’m feeling.
She backs away, eyes on my mouth. I put my hands on her hips and lift her so she straddles my lap, and then I return my attention to her face. I coast my hands up her neck, into her hair. I pull her toward me, and this kiss starts sweeter. Our tongues explore each other, our lips learn to dance in harmony.
But after a few minutes, something switches. I groan at the feel of her, her chest against to mine, and my blood burns hotter. Her teeth scrape at my lower lip. I bite her back, just to get a reaction. Her gasp is everything I’ve ever needed in a sound. Her hips roll on my thickening length.
I should stop—but she started this. She’s in control.
She makes a noise in the back of her throat.
I skim my hand over her breast. I slip my fingers under her shirt and pull down the cup of her bra. She squirms when I touch my finger to her nipple.
I break away from her mouth and kiss along her jaw, down her throat. She rocks her hips against me, and I pinch her nipple.
I whisper, “You’re so fucking responsive, Hadley.”
Her head falls back. I push her shirt up and get my first look at her. I die and go to heaven on the spot. She’s letting me touch her. She’s letting me take the control back, inch by inch, moan by moan.
She pulls at my shirt, at the button of my pants, her gaze slamming into mine.
“Off,” she says.
I oblige, lifting off my shirt and chucking it behind me. She tugs down the zipper of my pants and frees my erection. Her hand wraps around me.
Stars burst in front of my eyes.
“I’ve wanted to do this for too long,” she confesses, stroking me up and down.
I meet her eyes.
“I’m clean,” she says.
I nod. “Same,” I whisper.
She stands, naked from the waist up. My mouth drops open. She slowly tugs the waistband of her pants down, her thumbs hooking into her panties. The fabric drops to the floor. She takes two steps toward me and lowers herself back onto my lap, watching me.
“You’re speechless,” she says.
“You’re beautiful,” I answer.
She winces. “I was.”
I cup her jaw. “You were then, and you are now. Okay?”
Her nod is slower to come, and then she’s kissing me again. Our bare chests rub, and her hand finds my cock. I slide my hand down, across her slit, and she shudders. I push one finger into her, and she rocks against me. One finger becomes two, and she groans.
She’s so fucking tight.
I almost come at the feel of her riding my fingers.
I rub her clit in small circles. She tears her lips away from mine long enough to murmur, “Jesus, Griffin.”
“Not even close,” I whisper.
I give her more, and she whimpers. Her whole body tenses, and pride floods through me as she climaxes.
She tips her head forward, resting her forehead on mine, and we wait for her pulse to slow. I slide my fingers out of her and pump my cock, unable to bear the agony of waiting.
I pause when her fingers land on my wrist, and she raises herself to her knees. I freeze, watching her eyes as she guides me into her.
Bliss.
This is the type of heaven I never knew I was going to get to. She moves slowly, eyes rolling back with pleasure. I put my hand on her hip, urging her faster. When she just raises her eyebrows, a small smile on her face, I pinch her nipple.
She’s instantly wetter. Her hips move faster, and I rock up to meet her. We’re caught in a frenzy. I want so badly to flip her over and pound into her, but she puts her hands on my shoulders and uses me to leverage herself.
“Ah, fuck, Hadley.” An orgasm builds inside me.
She leans down and rakes her teeth on my earlobe, and I come without warning. She presses tightly against me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and scraping her fingernails up and down my back.
I carry her into the bathroom. She makes a vague sound of protest, but she hooks her legs around my hips and stays still.
In my bathroom, I set her on the counter and step away.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I turn on the water, making sure it’s warm before I dip a washcloth under the stream. “I’m taking care of you,” I tell her.
She sits stock-still as I clean away any trace of me between her legs. She leans back, and I move the washcloth higher, dripping water over her stomach and between her breasts.
“This is taking care of me?” she murmurs.
I pause in my ministrations and wink at her. “One form of it.”
She blushes. The red in her cheeks deepens when I lower myself in front of her, kissing the inside of her thigh. She meets my eyes, lips parted, as I trail kisses higher. So fucking pretty.
“This is another way,” I say.
I part her folds with my tongue. She shivers, and I do it again.
“Griffin,” she whispers.
I flick my gaze up to her eyes, but her head is tipped back, resting on the mirror. I give her nub one long suck, and she shudders. Her hands thread into my hair.
I focus my attention on her clit.
She grinds on my face, and I hum. This fever pitch gets me hard again.
I slide one finger inside her, thrusting slowly. My teeth graze her clit. She moans, pressing me to her harder.
“Gonna come,” she pants, her back arching.
I pause my movements, and she whimpers.
“Can I take care of you, Hadley?”
“Oh my god, Griffin,” she moans.
One finger dips in and out of her. Then two.
“Hadley,” I whisper, adding a third.
She bites her lip and meets my eyes, then slowly nods.
I move my fingers faster inside her. I suck hard on her clit, flicking my tongue on the sensitive bud, until she yells my name. She’s so beautiful.
I press one last kiss to her thigh and stand. After I kick off my pants and underwear, I lift her arms and wrap them around my shoulders. One arm goes behind her back and the other goes under her knees, and I walk us right into my shower.
As soon as the water is warm, I set her on her feet and squirt shampoo into my palm. She watches me with big eyes until I walk her backward, under the water, and get her hair wet. I take my time washing her hair. My fingers graze a bump, and she flinches. Remnants of passing out and hitting her head on the floor, I’d guess.
I try to push the worry aside and focus on the present. The suds slide down her back, over the curve of her ass. I shamelessly stare. Eventually, the water runs clear, and she motions to the conditioner.
“Only the tips,” she murmurs, winking at me.
I laugh, kissing her shoulder blade, and do as she says.
She rotates in my arms and looks up at me. “My turn.”
I still.
Her lips quirk for half a second, then she places her palm on my chest. “Two-way street. I get to take care of you, too.”
I slowly give her my back. Her breath catches, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“You hate it?”
“N
o,” she breathes. “No, why would you say that?”
The wings I got tattooed across my shoulder blades on a whim usually stay out of sight. There’s a scorpion tattoo on my biceps, too. Reminiscent of a simpler time. But the wings—they were once prideful.
Naked in front of Hadley, I’m guilty of my past.
Her finger traces one of the wings. Goosebumps break out along my arms.
“I love them,” she says. “I don’t—”
I glance over my shoulder at her, and she’s wiping away a tear.
“Get your hair wet?”
I nod and tip my head forward, into the water. When I pull out, I shake my head, scattering droplets everywhere. I’m rewarded with her laughter, her hand on my forearm.
“Bend down,” she says.
I duck around and steal a kiss, then get back into position.
“Stay still.” She laughs.
Her fingers slide into my hair, working up suds, and I let out a sigh. Head scratches should be a thing. They probably are a thing—but when’s the last time someone washed my hair? Her nails scrape my scalp again, and my eyes close.
“This feels amazing,” I admit.
“It should,” she says, “I went to school for this.”
She taps my shoulder, so I straighten and rinse myself off.
“You went to school to learn how to wash hair?”
“Beauty school dropout.” She chuckles. “I lasted a semester. In that semester, I managed to dye my hair four different shades of pink, and I gave myself a wicked mullet.”
“On purpose?”
She shakes her head, eyes shining. “Not even a little.”
She motions for me to lean down again, and this time I just tilt forward so I can watch her work. She rubs conditioner through my hair, eyes focused on the job.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell her. I put my hands on her waist. “I promise.”
Her hands drop from my head. “You can’t promise life and death, Griffin. You’re not in control of that.”
I look at the fading bruises on her arms, and my heart aches for her. My resolve hardens. “I will promise you that, Hadley. One of us has to have hope.”
She steps away from me, out of the shower. She wraps herself in a towel and moves to the counter, riffling through my drawer until she finds a comb. I watch as she stares at herself while she untangles her hair, frowning.
With a sigh, I rinse myself and shut off the water.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She sets down the comb and brushes her teeth. I dry myself off, then go to stand next to her.
I add, “It’s late. I pushed too much.”
She doesn’t answer, just spits into the sink.
The toothbrush is in her hand, toothpaste on her lips, but she stares down like there’s a ghost coming out of the drain.
I peer over her shoulder. There’s a whole lot of blood on the white porcelain.
She opens her mouth, her breathing coming fast, and I grab her shoulders. She holds on to my wrists, eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them.
Slowly, I take one finger and push her lip up, to better look at her teeth.
They’re all stained red.
13
HADLEY
“It’s okay,” Griffin says.
He tries to catch my eye, but my gaze keeps straying to the sink and the glob of blood I just spit out with the toothpaste. Horror. I’m horrified. Embarrassment burns my cheeks red, too, that he caught me like this. That there are any witnesses at all.
“Gums bleed. It’s a symptom of leukemia, but…”
I pull out of his grip and cover my mouth with my hand. Its metallic taste sits heavy on my tongue, haunting me. I twist back to the sink and turn on the water, cupping it in my palms. I swish and spit, over and over, until there’s no trace of blood. Until that godforsaken taste is out of my mouth. Seriously. Why does blood taste so… bad?
“Okay,” he says. “It’s okay.”
I exhale, trying to let go of my overreaction. I’m thankful he isn’t pointing out that my panic lasts for longer than a second—especially after the shit he put me through. On top of that, we just had sex. Something wonderful and earth-shattering, and completely more terrifying than the guns-blazing hero stunt he pulled earlier.
He’s going to try to save me. After everything, this will be our downfall.
He touches my lip. “It stopped.”
I examine my teeth and gums again, and finally sigh. He’s right.
“You can take my bed,” he says. “It’s time to sleep.”
He goes to leave the bathroom, and panic wells in my chest again. “Wait,” I call.
He glances back at me.
“Your bed is big enough for both of us,” I say in a low voice. Heat curls in my stomach. “I don’t know why you’d think we shouldn’t share…” It’s all I know how to do with you.
“Yeah?”
I force a smile, although I have ulterior motives: he’s always been good at chasing away the nightmares. I’m afraid they’ll be full-throttle tonight. He practically drags me to the bed, then he stares pointedly at the towel wrapped around me. I raise my eyebrow, contemplating running to get sleep clothes, but Griffin tugs it off me in one smooth move.
“Much better,” he murmurs, staring at my breasts.
My nipples stiffen under his attention. I pull off Griffin’s towel, too, and look him up and down. He reveals his wings once again, just before he turns off the light. I contemplate them as he comes back toward me. He was always my guardian angel in my eyes, and now he has another name: Angel of Death. Whatever that means.
He left feathers for me.
This started long before he ever left you, something in me whispers. The darkness you spy in his eyes is just the beginning.
How do I let someone like that in—back in—to my life? Into my heart?
The room is too dark for a minute, and then my eyes pick up the moonlight spilling through the window. It illuminates his skin, the curve of his shoulder. I climb into the bed, moving to the far side, and Griffin blinks at me for a second.
He slides in next to me, flipping the blankets up over us.
I burrow under the covers, only my head peeking out. It’s colder in here, naked. My fear takes ahold of me: I picture my mouth and nose bleeding out. I’ll stain the pillows red before I wake up.
Griffin still watches me, so I bare my teeth at him.
“Any blood?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Pearly white.”
“Thanks.” I’m still unnerved.
He stretches his arm out and traces my jaw. “Anytime,” he whispers. “Now come here.”
He shifts closer to me. I blink at his open arms. My heart leaps when I figure out what he’s silently asking, and I push myself into his embrace. I tuck my head into his neck, just under his chin. It’s a perfect fit. He wraps his arms around me and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head.
This is our normal. This is our ordinary. And I wouldn’t trade this moment for the world. In the nighttime, we’re different people. Griffin is the boy who rescues me and I’m the girl who...
I don’t know what I am.
I’m whatever he wants me to be.
I wake up slowly.
And alone.
Stretching, I realize that was probably the single best sleep I’ve had in a long time. I don’t remember ever feeling so bone-tired. But as I think back, it makes sense. I barely slept on the plane over here, and that was two days ago. We lost most of a day traveling. And then I spent a night on the floor of a panic room… unconscious. Last night was my first full night of sleep since we arrived.
I sit up, holding the silky sheet to my chest. No sign of Griffin. The sliding door is half-open, and the rest of the apartment is still.
I get out of bed and tiptoe into Griffin’s closet. The guy is a neat freak, which makes it easy to find a light-gray sweatshirt with the words World’s Worst Bodyguard on it. I stare at it for a s
econd, then I shake my head and decide to go for it. If anything, me wearing it is more accurate than Griffin wearing it.
The sweatshirt ends halfway down my thighs, and my hands are lost in the sleeves. Which means: best sweatshirt ever. Irony on top of huge and snuggly? Perfect. It even smells like Griffin. I duck my nose into it and inhale, smiling slightly.
I’m such a goner.
Last night was the best sex I ever had. I shiver, remembering it, until an unexpected wave of sadness crashes over me. We didn’t use a condom. For a lot of people, that would mean… babies. Pregnancy.
That’ll never be you, Had, my mother told me after my first round of chemo. She didn’t mean it so callously. It came on the heels of an argument of whether or not to freeze my eggs. I had counted Griffin out—he wasn’t coming back—and I didn’t see the point of looking toward the future if I was going to die. I told the doctor that I didn’t want to go that route.
Mom was upset. I was upset.
The doctor was… sympathetic.
That was almost two years ago. The blast cells—the abnormal cells—were higher than normal, so I went through treatment stronger than the medication I had been on. I lost a good portion of my hair. I was sick for weeks. The numbers leveled out, and I was back in safe territory—plus a few extra checkups.
That was what brought me home from New York, and I’d been in Bitterwood ever since. The worsening symptoms terrified me, so I withdrew from my family. I missed a doctor’s appointment. And then I ended up in the hospital, and the doctors got real with me. I was at dangerous levels. As in—I will die if I don’t get a bone marrow transplant.
My skin crawls as my mind switches over to the memory of Patrick’s hands on my skin, the way he seemed to hate Griffin with every fiber of his being. And then he just… left.
There’s no way I would turn Griffin over to them. Never.
Mom was freaked out about the sheriff’s cruiser parked outside her house.
Last night was just a small sample of things to come with this cancer. I thought could handle the nosebleeds. The bruising. The weight loss. But being unable to walk up three flights of stairs, or hike through the woods, and then my gums started bleeding—it was too much, all at once.
