Page 72 of Blood Queen
His hands skim over my body with a familiarity that’s almost overwhelming. When he pulls me on top of him, I can’t stop the gasp that leaves my mouth at the feel of his hard length beneath me. I grind against him instinctively, his breath hitching at the contact.
“Missed this,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips, urging me to move, to feel him. And I do. Every inch of him. Every press, every slide, every brush of his lips against my skin.
A frantic, fiery rhythm builds between us, and a sweet pressure coils tight in the pit of my stomach. I know I can’t last. My head falls back deeper into the pillows, tangling into the sheets as his white-knuckled fingers press indents into my hips, pulling me faster until—
“Kid…”
We’re a mess of tangled limbs and heated skin, each of us trying to get closer, deeper, to forget the space that was between us for so long.
I barely hear him before I unravel completely, the rush of bliss leaving me boneless and breathless and gasping his name on repeat.
He rolls me below him and catches my mouth with his, moving wildly now, losing himself deeper inside me until he shudders hard and collapses against me, our heartbeats pounding in unison. We breathe each other’s air, feel each other coming down.
Finally.
“Yeah.” He nuzzles his face into my neck, lips finding my pulse. “Definitely missed this.”
I lace my fingers through his hair and hold him, feeling raw and content. I lay on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath my ear. It’s so soothing, like I’m right where I belong. But I can’t stay quiet. Not now.
“I love you,” I whisper, the words slipping from me before I can stop them.
He shifts slightly beneath me, his fingers tenderly weaving through my hair, and I feel the warmth of his lips as they press against my forehead, soft yet firm, an anchor.
“I love you, too,” he murmurs, his voice a comfort that wraps around me like a warm embrace.
I’m lying in bed next to Truman, his steady breathing a comfort against my side, but I can’t shake the gnawingfeeling in my chest that’s been there since Thanksgiving break. Something’s been eating at me, and I can’t ignore it anymore.
I shift a little, trying not to disturb him, but he stirs anyway, his arm tightening around me instinctively. I can feel his warmth pressing against me, his scent, the safe, solid feeling of being here with him.
I’ve been lying to him, keeping things from him. Not the kind of lie that’s a full-on betrayal, but the kind that still feels like a weight around my neck.
The text messages from Marcy buzz in my bag on the floor, and I bite my lip. I haven’t told him about those—haven’t told him I’ve been talking to her almost every day since he left for Thanksgiving. Haven’t told him how she’s been pushing me to go to Miami. To fold myself back into the Testa family.
My stomach churns just thinking about it. The anger. The resentment. The rage I’ve been holding inside since the day my Papa was taken from me. It feels too big, too raw, too fucking heavy to say out loud.
I slide my phone from my bag and glance at the screen again, my thumb hovering over Marcy’s last message.“You can’t keep running forever.”
I swallow hard. The words burn. But it’s true. I can’t keep running. And I don’t know what to do with that.
I turn my head, my gaze meeting Truman’s in the dim light. His face is relaxed, his eyes still closed, his lips parted just slightly in sleep.
For a moment, I want to curl into him, forget everything that’s weighing me down, and pretend life is perfect. But I know it’s not, won’t be until I make it right. I pull the blanket up, covering my face for a second to block out the guilt. I’m being selfish, aren’t I? I’m keeping all of this from him, hoping it’ll go away on its own. But it won’t. It’s going to catch up to us sooner or later.
Truman stirs again, and I force myself to put the phone down, trying to push the thoughts away. I want to tell him. I want to scream it out until the weight lifts, but every time I open my mouth, it feels like I’ll be giving up a part of myself I’m not ready to lose.
And maybe that’s what scares me the most. That in telling him, I’ll be losing myself—becoming someone I don’t recognize anymore.
I reach for his hand in the dark, intertwining my fingers with his, and squeeze. The movement is soft, almost tentative, but it’s real. It’s me telling him, in the only way I know how, that I’m still here, even if inside, I’m falling apart.
39
Present
The sound of a knock at the door sends me into a tailspin. My heart leaps in my chest, and I freeze, momentarily paralyzed. Marcy is in the kitchen, stirring something that smells far too comforting for the weight I’m carrying in my chest. She looks up, the worry in her eyes too obvious to miss, but she doesn’t ask anything. She just waits for me to move. I don’t. The knock comes again, more insistent.
“Evany?” Marcy calls, walking toward me slowly, her voice low. “Do you want me to get it?”
I don’t respond, but my feet finally move, carrying me to the door like they’re guided by something other than my own will.
