“Tu devrais me laisser être celui-là.”Luc’s hand slides from my hip to my cheek again, his thumb brushing away tears that aren’t slowing anytime soon.“You should let me be the one.”
I inhale sharply, my voice cracking with the first thing I think to say. “I can’t.”
His jaw tightens. “Because you wanthim?”
I swallow hard. “Idowant him,” I admit. “But that’s not the reason.I amthe reason.”
“Putain.” Luc breathes out through his nose. “I’m so done with this.” He presses his forehead to mine like he’s trying to soothe us both. “So done with you pretending you’re not into me the way I’m into you.”
I close my eyes because it’s too much.
He’s right, Iaminto him. So fucking into him, I can barely breathe around him.
The way he teases or looks at me like heseesme, and not just a walking mess of scars and lies. The way he makes me feel alive again, wanted, reckless, safe, and how he holds me as if I’m worth holding on to. But he doesn’t know what he’s asking for, not really. He doesn’t know what I am orwhoI am, and if he did, if heknew, would he still feel like this?Would he want Alaina?
I tell myself to pull back because we’ve reached the line.
Don’t let him cross it.
Don’t let yourself cross it.
But I don’t move. My body is locked up tight, strung between the fear of falling apart and the ache of wanting more. Luc doesn’t move either, staying with me, our foreheads pressed together while the rain slides down our faces, and all I feel is this pull toward him, my heart beating out of my chest in hopes of getting closer to his.
“I’m out of hesitation,bébé.” He releases my face and runs his fingertips down the arm of my soaked hoodie, finding my hand at the bottom. Instead of threading our fingers together as I expect him to, he guides my hand to his chest. Then, with his hand on top of mine, he pushes himself. I don’t understand it at first, but then it clicks. He’s telling meyou can stop this.
I don’t.
Ishould. But I don’t.
When he lets go of my hand, I grab it in a panic, not wanting to lose his touch. He trembles as he leans down closer, his breath ghosts over my lips, and I start to wonder if he would wait here like this forever.
Then, just before he closes that last inch, he whispers,“Laisse-moi te montrer.”
When his lips finally meet mine, they’re soft, gentle, like he’safraid that if he pushes too hard, I’ll shatter into a million pieces, and he might not be able to grab them all in time.
He’s right.
I breathe him in—rain, warmth, and Luc—and for one perfect moment, I forget to be strong. I let my mouth find his, soft at first, tentative. Just enough to taste him. His lips are warm and slick with rain, and the way his hand cups my jaw makes something inside me tilt. I lean into the way his hand curves at my jaw, thumb stroking slowly, coaxing me closer.
That’s all I allow myself,that one kiss, but then he groans softly, low in his throat, and kisses me again.
The flutter in my chest is instant and wild, wings catching wind, and I’ve already lost control.
His movements are just as soft this time, just as slow, like he’s tasting something he’s wanted for a long time but doesn’t dare rush. His nose brushes mine as he pulls back a fraction, then he surges forward and captures my mouth again, deeper this time, surer.
I sigh against his lips in undeniable pleasure, and he swallows the sound like it’s something sacred. His other hand slips to my waist, steadying me as my knees shake, threatening to give out.
“Mon Dieu.”He breathes against my lips between kisses, his voice thick with something that makes my heart stumble. “T’es parfaite.”
I don’t need a translation for that.
You’re perfect.
Perfect.
I have never applied this word to myself, especially not now.
But the way he says it, like it’s an absolute truth, finds its wayto places I’ve kept closed off, places that have never dared to believe something like that could be true.
