Chapter Hundred and Ten
His mouth stayed shut, his jaw tight. If he said the rest... if he cracked open that door and showed her what was clawing inside him, it might ruin everything.
So he said nothing else.
But God, he burned.
Her nearness was unbearable. The slope of her throat, the way her shirt clung to the line of her back, the gentle rhythm of her breathing: it was all too much. And still, not enough.
He wanted to run his hands down every inch of her. He wanted to memorize her scars with his mouth, hold her until neither of them had to pretend anymore.
He wanted to be seen.
And he wanted her to let him see her, too. In every messy, broken piece.
But the words stayed trapped in his throat. Because if he told her that if he confessed that she was the first person to make him feel this *
unsteady, and this alive, what would she do?
Would she pull away? Laugh? Panic?
Would he?
