Confessions in the Dark by Jeanette Grey Page B

sound of pain inside his lungs.
    She was moving before she could think.
    She stepped around the mess he’d made, right up to him. Those broad, strong shoulders still radiated distance, still told her with everything he had in him to stay away, but the hurt in his bones spoke louder.
    And that was something she could never ignore.
    With a hand on his arm, she tugged him around, and he resisted, clumsy with the crutches and as stubborn as the day they’d met. But she managed to get a hand on his face, to touch the stubbled line of his jaw, thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth. He let out a sound that might have been punched out of him, and her own eyes went blurry as she pulled at him to look at her.
    His gaze was glass and steel, both ready to break and impossibly hard. A skittering pang throbbed through her chest.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
    For his loss and for asking. For everything.
    Something in his expression cracked. This time, when she tried to draw him in, there was no resistance. One of his crutches tumbled to the ground, an arm going around her waist. He pressed his face into her hair and let out a breath against her ear, damp and shuddering, and she felt it like an ache inside her heart.
    Closing her eyes, she curled her hand around the back of his neck. There was something so raw about him. Like he’d never said those words before, maybe not even to himself.
    Like years had passed since he’d been held.
    So she tucked him closer. Wrapped him up and took his weight. Took his confessions.
    And tried to give him back all she had in return.
      
    Years.
    For years now, Cole had been holding himself together through sheer will. It had gotten to the point where he had scarcely recognized it anymore—the tightness in his limbs, the tension straining every muscle to just keep choosing to breathe. The strain had faded into the background, had become this barren landscape of numb forbearance that he had to trudge through, day after day after day.
    Until now. Until this woman.
    Serena. She’d stormed her way into his life and his home, and now she’d—what? Asked him a bare handful of questions. Refused to let him change the subject or hide his face. She’d touched him with the softest glancing brush of fingertips against his cheek, and it had all come crumbling down.
    He sucked in another searing breath, and the wet raggedness, the weakness in it threatened to take him to his knees.
    Fuck. Shameful, pathetic. He spat the words into the vacuum of his own mind, but even as he did, he clung to her more tightly.
    Worse, she let him. Everything in him was falling, but she bore him up with quiet strength. Her hand cupped his nape, the warmth there grounding him in a way he’d forgotten it even could.
    And it felt good . Better than good.
    Too good.
    He squeezed his eyes shut tight, giving himself one last moment to soak this in. The unwinding deep inside him and the luxury of letting go, of allowing himself to be touched. Tenderness and comfort, and he didn’t get to have it. Wasn’t allowed to keep it.
    Steeling himself, he opened his eyes and dropped his arm. She let him take a scant half-step back, but then her face tilted up, and his throat went tight.
    That wasn’t pity in her gaze. It was resolve.
    Just like that, she rose onto her toes, and she didn’t let him go. She reeled him in and down, and his protest, his shock , died in his mouth at the hot press of soft lips to his. It was all he could do just to hold on.
    His lone, remaining crutch went crashing to the ground. He got both his arms around her, pure instinct driving him. Pivoting on his good leg, he turned her until her spine hit the refrigerator door, and God, bloody motherfucking hell. He really let himself feel her this time. She was all soft curves pressed against him, full breasts and perfect hips, the subtle dip of her waist fitting to the furl of his palm.
    And her mouth . She tasted like heaven and hell,