I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(56)

But then he touches my nose with the paintbrush—so very gently I barely feel it—and that simple motion snaps me back to reality.

“Oh. My. God.” I touch my nose with disbelief, feeling for wet paint. “I can’t believe you really just did that.”

Chase is holding back a laugh, and I give him my best scowl in return. He laughs harder, and I think it must be because he’s just turned me into a white-nosed, scowling clown. But then I look down at my hand, the one I raised to my face. There’s nothing on my finger, no white paint, nothing.

“Gotcha,” Chase says quietly, dropping the paintbrush. It clatters to the floor.

He has gotten me, he’s gotten me good. The paint on the brush is dried, there’s not a single smudge on me.

“Oh, I see how you play, tricky boy,” I say while Chase stands before me and smirks victoriously.

“Have fun finding your soda,” I snipe, trying to sound mad, but I can’t muster up any ill will since, really, I’m having a blast. We’re always at our best when we’re playing.

I try to slip past Chase, leave him to his search, but he traps me by placing his hands against the lockers at either side of my head. “Not so fast,” he says softly.

Suddenly, this isn’t about sodas, paintbrushes, or games any longer.

My breath catches and our eyes meet—blue on brown. Does he see how much I want him to kiss me right now? Maybe, because his hands move from the lockers to wrap around my waist, so much like the first day we met. Only this time I put my arms around him too, placing my hands on his lower back.

Without thinking, I slip my fingers under the hem at the back of his tee. With warm, warm skin under my fingers, I trace little circles around those sexy indentations above the band of his boxer briefs.

“Kay,” he whispers, his pale blues conflicted and pained. “Don’t.”

My eyes stay with his, and though I think he might, he doesn’t stop me, not even when my fingers inch upward. Chase’s back is so strong. His muscles flex and move as I touch and press. When I find an area where the texture of his skin differs, I trace with my fingertips what feels like the edge of a falling feather. Chase’s breathing picks up. I know I’m turning him on—heat radiates between us—but I have no desire to stop exploring.

I find another falling feather, then another. Chase sucks in a breath as I continue to trace and touch. He’s not the only one feeling this palpable excitement, my fingers tremble as they move across his back.

“Why are the feathers falling?” I whisper-ask, my heart racing as I press my palms to the wings.

With breaths uneven and eyes lust-hooded, Chase answers, “Because my wings are broken, baby, because I am broken.”

“You’re not broken.” I touch the angel between the wings on his back for emphasis. “You’re putting your life back together. Building isn’t breaking, Chase.”

He chuckles a little and kind of shivers under my touch. “You’re too sweet to me, baby girl. You give me entirely too much credit.” He brushes my cheek with his thumb, but his eyes are on my lips. “I just wish…”

“You wish what?” I ask when he falters. “What aren’t you saying? Don’t hold back with me, Chase, please—”

He touches my lips with his finger, cutting me off. “I’m afraid,” he whispers.

My hand covers his. “Why?” I murmur against his finger.

How could Chase be afraid? He’s strong, in so many ways. He’s fearless, as far as I can see. But maybe he doesn’t see himself the way I do. Why else would there be resistance in his gunmetal blues, like he’s battling something?

“I’m no good for you,” he says, pained, as if uttering the words hurts him. “You could do so much better than me, baby.”

“That’s not true. You’re good for me, Chase. You help me in ways I can’t even begin to explain. You make me want to live, to embrace life even. I was barely surviving before I met you.”

I’ve laid it on the line, and his resistance is crumbling, I see it in every part of him—his eyes, the expression on his beautiful face, even the way he holds my body, one hand moving to the small of my back, arching me toward him ever so slightly.

I lean my head back against the locker and he nuzzles my neck. “What if I end up being bad for you?” he asks against my skin. “What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

He lifts his head and searches my eyes. “How can you say that, sweet girl? Being with me will never be easy. I meant it when I said I’m broken. You make me feel more whole than I ever have in the past, but there will always be something missing. I’ll always be trouble, Kay.”

My hands are still on his back, still under his tee, and I touch everywhere—the angel, the wings, the falling feathers. “Then be my trouble,” I whisper as I touch and touch and stare into blue depths.

Chase leans in close, close enough that his warm breaths caress me. I breathe in the life in his breaths, his life. “Be my trouble,” I whisper again.

My trouble-boy’s lips—so soft—just barely touch mine. We both still, lips touching, breaths shared. This is what we are, two broken people who when connected are made whole, made right. I feel this everywhere, my body, my heart, my soul. Does Chase feel it too?