Confess

by Colleen Hoover

  I bite my bottom lip and glance away from him. I don't like his comment, no matter how much truth is in it. Sometimes the truth hurts, and having him lay it out like that makes it seem more black and white than it really is.

  "You're being unfair."

  "No, I'm being selfish," he says.

  "It's the same thing."

  He takes a step toward me. "No, Auburn, it isn't. Unfair would be giving you an ultimatum. Being selfish is doing something like this." His lips connect with mine with strength and purpose. His hands slide into my hair and wrap around the back of my head. He kisses me like he's giving me every kiss he wishes he could have given me in the past, and every kiss he'll wish he could give me in the future.

  All of them, all at once.

  His hands drop to my back and he pulls me against him. I'm not sure where my hands are at this point. I think I'm holding on to him for dear life, but every part of me other than my mouth has just gone completely numb. The only thing I'm fully aware of is his mouth on mine. His kiss is all I know in this moment.

  All I want to think about.

  But damn it if Trey doesn't force his way into my thoughts. I don't care how strong my feelings are for Owen, my loyalty is with Trey. Owen's actions forced me to make a choice, and now we both have to live with the consequences.

  I break apart from him, finding strength to push against his chest. Our mouths separate, but my hands remain pressed against him. I can feel the deep rise and fall of his chest, and knowing he feels what I feel is almost enough for me to pull him back to my mouth.

  "Trey," I say breathlessly. "I'm with Trey now."

  Owen squeezes his eyes shut, like the sound of his name is painful to hear. He's breathing so heavily, he has to catch his breath before he responds. He opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on mine. "Your commitment is the only part of you that's with Trey." He lifts his hand and presses his palm over my shirt, against my heart. "Every other part of you is with me."

  His words affect me more than his kiss. I try to inhale, but his hand pressed against my heart isn't allowing it. He takes a step closer until we're flush together. His palm is still pressed to my chest, but now his other arm is wrapped around my lower back.

  "He doesn't make your heart feel like this, Auburn. He doesn't make it so crazy that it tries to beat through the walls of your chest."

  I close my eyes and lean into him. I think my body makes the choice for me, because my mind has certainly lost all control. I press my face against his neck and listen quietly as our breaths fail to slow. The longer we stand here and the more he says, the heavier our need grows. I can feel it in the way he holds me. I can hear it in the desperate plea of his voice. I can feel it with every rise and fall of his chest.

  "I get why you had to choose him," he says. "I don't like it, but I understand it. I also know that giving one night to me doesn't take away the fact that you might be giving him forever. But like I said . . . I'm selfish. And if one night with you is all I can get, then I'll take it." He lifts my head off his shoulder and tilts my face up to his. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give me. Because I know that if you walk out that door, then ten years from now . . . twenty years from now . . . we'll wish we had listened to our hearts when we think back on tonight."

  "That's what scares me," I tell him. "I'm afraid if I listen to my heart once, I'll never figure out how to ignore it again."

  Owen lowers his mouth to mine, and in a whisper he says, "If only I could be so lucky." His mouth connects with mine again, and this time I've very aware of every part of me. I'm pulling him to me with as much desperation as he's pulling at me. His mouth is everywhere as he kisses me with relief, knowing this kiss is me agreeing to whatever he's asking of me. It's my way of telling him he can have tonight.

  "I need you upstairs," he says. "Now."

  We begin to make our way across the floor of the studio, but neither of us can keep our mouths or hands off each other, so it takes us a while. Once we reach the stairs, he begins to back up them, making it even harder to continue kissing. When he sees we aren't getting anywhere, he finally grabs my hand and turns around, pulling me up the stairs until we're in his apartment.

  When his mouth meets mine again, it's a completely different kind of kiss than the one we were just sharing. He cradles my head between both of his hands and he kisses me slowly. Soft and deep and full of highs and lows and depth.

  He kisses me like I'm his canvas.

  He grabs both of my hands and intertwines his fingers with mine. His forehead meets mine when his kiss comes to an end.

  No one has ever made me feel this much. Not even Adam. And maybe the way I feel being kissed by him is a feeling that is so rare, it's something I'll never experience again after tonight.

  That thought terrifies me, and also seals my fate until tomorrow morning, because whatever I feel with Owen shouldn't be taken for granted. Not even for the sake of loyalty to Trey.

  And I honestly don't care what kind of person that makes me.

  "I'm scared I'll never feel this again with anyone else," I whisper.

  He squeezes my hands. "I'm scared you will."

  I pull back and look at him, because I need him to know that my feelings for Trey will never match this. "I'll never have this with him, Owen. Not even close."

  He makes a face that isn't full of relief like I expected. In fact, it's almost as if I said something he doesn't want to hear. "I wish you could," he says. "I don't want to think of you having to spend a lifetime with someone who doesn't deserve you."

  He wraps his arms around me, and I bury my face in his neck again. "That's not what I meant," I say. "I'm not saying he deserves me any less than you do. I just feel a different kind of connection with you, and it scares me."

  His hands grip the nape of my neck, and he moves his mouth to my ear. "You may not think he deserves you less than I do, but that's exactly what I'm saying, Auburn." His hands lower until he grips my thighs, and then he lifts me. He carries me across the room and lowers me down onto the bed. He slides on top of me, cradling my head between his forearms. He kisses me gently on the forehead, then again on the tip of my nose. His eyes meet mine, and he looks at me with more sincerity and honesty than I've ever seen in them before. "No one deserves you like I do."

  His hands meet the button on my jeans, and he unbuttons them. His lips rest against my neck as he continues to convince me with his words that this is exactly where we need to be. "No one sees you like I do."

  I close my eyes and listen to the sound of his voice. I wait as he removes my jeans, anticipating the touch of his hand against my skin. His palms slide up the sides of my legs and then his mouth is against mine again.

  "No one understands you the way I do."

  He presses himself against me at the same time his tongue slips inside my mouth. I moan, and the room begins to spin, and the combination of his words and his touch and his body on mine are like gasoline on a fire. He begins to pull my shirt and bra over my head and I do nothing to help him or stop him. I'm useless against his touch.

  "No one makes your heart beat like I do."

  He kisses me, pausing only to remove his shirt. I somehow regain control of my senses when I realize my hands are pulling at his jeans, attempting to remove them so I can feel him skin to skin.

  He presses his palm against my heart. "And no one else deserves to be inside you if they can't get there through here first."

  His words trickle against my mouth like raindrops. He kisses me softly and then lifts himself off the bed. My eyes remain closed, but I hear his jeans meet the floor and I hear the tear of a wrapper. I feel his hands on my hips as he hooks his fingers beneath my panties and pulls them down. And it isn't until he's on top of me again that I finally find the strength to open my eyes.

  "Say it," he whispers, looking down at me. "I want to hear you tell me I deserve you."

  I slide my hands up his arms, along the curves of his shoulders, up the sides of his neck, and in
to his hair. I look him directly in the eyes. "You deserve me, Owen."

  He drops his forehead to the side of my head and grabs my leg, lifting it, locking it around his waist. "And you deserve me, Auburn."

  He pushes into me, and I'm not sure which is louder--his groan or my sudden outburst of "Oh my God."

  He buries himself deep inside me and holds still. He looks down at me breathlessly and smiles. "I can't tell if you said that because this feels incredibly good to you or if you're making fun of my initials again."

  I smile between gasps. "Both."

  Our smiles fade when he begins moving again. He keeps his mouth close to mine but far enough away that he can look down into my eyes. He moves in and out of me, slowly, as his lips begin to feather soft kisses across mine. I moan and need more than anything to close my eyes, but the way he's looking at me is something I want to remember every time I take a breath.

  He pulls back again and pushes against me at the same time his lips meet my cheek. He begins to find a rhythm between each kiss, and he keeps his eyes focused on mine with every thrust.

  "This is what I want you to remember, Auburn," he says softly. "I don't want you to remember what it feels like when I'm inside you. I want you to remember how it feels when I look at you."

  His lips brush against mine so delicately, I almost don't feel them. "I want you to remember how your heart reacts every time I kiss you." His lips meet mine, and I attempt to ingrain every feeling I get from his kiss and his words into my memory. His hand slides through my hair and he lifts my head slightly off the bed, filling me with a deep kiss.

  He pulls away so we can catch our breath. Looking into my eyes again, he says, "I want you to remember my hands, and how they can't stop touching you."

  He works his mouth slowly up my jaw, until he reaches my ear. "And I need you to remember that anyone can make love. But I'm the only one who deserves to make love to you."

  My arms lock around his neck with those words, and his mouth crashes against mine. He pushes into me, hard, and I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to beg him to never stop, but what I want even more is this kiss. I want to remember every part of it. I want to engrave the taste of him onto my tongue.

  The next several minutes are a blur of moans, kisses, sweat, hands, and mouths. He's on top of me, and then I'm on top of him, and then he's on top of me again. When I feel the warmth of his mouth meet my breast, I completely lose myself. I let my head fall back and my eyes fall shut and my heart falls straight into the palms of his hands.

  I'm so worked up, so dizzy, so grateful that I made the decision to stay, that I can't even tell when it's over. I'm still breathing so heavily, and my heart is pounding against my chest. I'm not sure that simply reaching a climax with Owen signifies the end of this experience. Because coming down from being with him feels just as incredible as it felt when it was occurring.

  I'm lying against his chest and his arms are wrapped around me, and I never thought I'd be in this position again. A position where I know I'm right where I belong, but there's nothing I can do that can keep me there.

  It reminds me of the day I had to say good-bye to Adam. I knew what we felt was more than what people gave us credit for, and being torn away from him before I was ready took me forever to get over.

  And now, the same thing is happening with Owen. I'm not ready to say good-bye. I'm scared to say good-bye.

  But I have to say good-bye, and it hurts like hell.

  If I knew how to stop the tears, I would. I don't want him to hear me cry. I don't want him to know how upset I am that we can't have this every day of our lives. I don't want him to ask me what's wrong.

  When he feels my tears falling against his chest, he doesn't do anything to stop them. Instead, he simply holds me with a much tighter grip and presses his cheek against the top of my head. His hand brushes softly through my hair.

  "I know, baby," he whispers. "I know."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Owen

  I should have known she would be gone when I woke up. I felt her heartbreak last night when she was just thinking about having to say good-bye, so the fact that she left before having to do it doesn't surprise me.

  What does surprise me is the confession lying on the pillow next to me. I pick it up to read it, but not before moving to her side of the bed. I can still smell her from here. I open the folded piece of paper and read her words.

  I'll think about last night forever, Owen. Even when I shouldn't.

  My hand falls against my chest, and I clench my fist.

  I already miss her enough for it to hurt, and she's probably only been gone an hour. I read her confession several more times. It's easily my favorite confession now, but also the most painful.

  I walk to my workroom, drag the canvas with her unfinished portrait to the middle of the floor, and set it up. I gather all the supplies I'll need, and I stand in front of her painting. I stare down at the confession, imagining exactly what she must have looked like when she wrote it, and I finally have the inspiration I need to finish the portrait.

  I pick up my brush, and I paint her.

  I'm not sure how much time has passed. One day. Two days. I think I stopped three times to eat, at least. It's dark outside, I know that much.

  But I'm finally finished.

  I rarely feel that any of my paintings ever make it to a finishing point. There's always something else I want to add to them, like a few more brushstrokes or another color. But there comes a point with every painting when I just have to stop and accept it for what it is.

  I'm at that point with this painting. It's probably the most realistic painting I've ever laid out on canvas.

  Her expression is exactly how I want to remember her. It's not a happy expression. In fact, she looks kind of sad. I want to think it's the same look she'll get on her face every time she thinks about me. A look that reveals how much she misses me. Even when she shouldn't.

  I drag the painting to a spot against the wall. I find the confession she left on my pillow this morning, and I attach it to the wall next to her face. I pull the box of confessions she's left me over the last few weeks, and I attach those all around her painting.

  I take a step back and I stare at the only piece I have left of her.

  "What ever happened between you and Auburn?" Harrison asks.

  I shrug.

  "The usual?"

  I shake my head. "Not even close."

  He cocks an eyebrow. "Wow," he says. "That's a first. Pretty sure I want to hear the rest of this story." He grabs another beer and slides it across the bar toward me. He leans over and pops the tab. "Give me the condensed version, though. I close in a few hours."

  I laugh. "That's easy. She's the reason for it all, Harrison."

  He looks at me with a confused expression.

  "You said condensed," I tell him. "That's the condensed version."

  Harrison shakes his head. "Well in that case, I change my mind. I want the detailed version."

  I smile and look down at my phone. It's already after ten. "Maybe next time. I've already been here for two hours." I lay money on the bar and take one last sip of the beer. He waves me off as I turn to head back to my studio. The painting I finished of her earlier should be close to dry now. I think this might be the first painting I ever hang in the bedroom area of my apartment.

  I pull my key out of my pocket and slide it into the door, but the door isn't locked.

  I know I locked it. I never leave here without locking it.

  I push the door open, and the second I do, my whole world stops. I look to my left. To my right. I walk further into my studio and I spin around, staring at the damage that's been done to everything I own. Everything I've worked for.

  Red paint lines the walls, the floors, covers every painting in the entire downstairs area. The first thing I do is rush to one of the paintings closest to me. I touch the paint smeared across the canvas and can tell it's already drying. It's probably been drying
for about an hour now. Whoever did this was waiting for me to walk out of the studio tonight.

  As soon as Trey comes to mind, that's when the real panic sets in. I immediately scale the stairs and head straight to my workroom. As soon as I swing open the door, I bend over and press my hands to my thighs. I exhale a huge sigh of relief.

  They didn't touch it.

  Whoever was here didn't touch the painting I made of her. After I allow myself a few minutes to recover, I stand and walk to her painting. Even though the painting hasn't been touched, something is different.

  Something is off.

  And that's when I notice the confession she left on my pillow.

  It's missing.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Auburn

  Are you expecting company?" I ask Emory. Someone is knocking on our door, so I look down at my phone. It's after ten.

  She shakes her head. "It's not for me. Humans don't like me."

  I laugh and make my way to the door. When I look through the peephole and see Trey, I sigh heavily.

  "Whoever it is, you seem disappointed," Emory says flatly. "Must be your boyfriend." She stands and makes her way toward her bedroom, and I'm thankful she's at least learned the meaning of privacy.

  I open the door to let him in. I'm a little confused as to why he's here in the first place. It's after ten at night, and he said he was out of town until tomorrow.

  As soon as the door is open, he rushes inside. He kisses me briefly on the cheek and says, "I need to use your restroom."

  His hurried appearance throws me off for a second as I watch him remove his things from his belt. Gun, handcuffs, car keys. He sets it all on the bar, and I can't help but notice the sweat dripping down his temple. He looks nervous. "Go ahead," I say, gesturing toward the restroom. "Make yourself at home."

  He heads straight for the restroom and as soon as he opens the door, I experience a small moment of panic.

  "Wait!" I say, rushing behind him. He steps away from the door, and I brush past him. I walk to the sink and pick up all the seashell soaps. I walk out of the restroom and he's eyeing my hands curiously.

  "What am I supposed to wash my hands with now?" he asks.

  I nod my head toward the cabinet. "There's liquid soap in there," I tell him. I look down at the soaps in my hands. "These aren't for guests."