Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(105)
“I will love you for always,” he says, his voice void of any fear or apprehension. The only sign left that he’s scared at all is the hard swallow that follows the most beautiful thing he could have ever said. He doesn’t ask to love me. He tells me. He claims me. And though he doesn’t say it, I am his too whether I want to be or not—Andrew Harper will spend his last breath defending my honor. I’m lost to this man. I was lost to the boy years ago—happily lost, and so in love in return.
I take the small note still clutched in my hand and bring it to my lips, kissing it and smiling to him.
“You’re mine,” I say, wanting to hear how it sounds, wanting to feel the way the words run off my tongue.
Andrew laughs lightly, nodding just enough. “Yeah…I am.”
“I’m yours,” I say, his eyes widening ever so subtly, giving away his excitement and hunger. “And I will love you more.”
Andrew’s jaw twitches as his gaze remains on me, on my eyes and my mouth and my body. I’m his—and I want to be taken. The air between us is almost thick enough to drown in—our breath gone, and each the only thing the other needs to survive from this point forward.
His mouth mere inches from mine, his lips find mine within the second it takes me to blink. His hands again cradle my face, his body moving me in demanding steps backward through his living room and down the small hallway to his room until my back is flat against his closed door. The sudden stop gives him enough leverage to push the hardness of his body into me.
In one swift movement, his hands rush down my back, scooping me up and wrapping my legs around him as he maneuvers the door open behind me. He takes long, deliberate steps to his bed, his hands grabbing the bottom of my sweater and tugging it over my head as my body slides down his to sit at the end of his mattress.
He turns around, kicking the door closed, then faces me, pulling both of his shirts over his head quickly. My eyes take in his form, but they also gaze over his fading bruises and the few scars left on him from his time at Lake Crest. I slide toward him and run my hands along his hard chest and hot skin, my fingers grazing over every curve, contour, and mark left behind by those who tried to hurt him. I gaze up at him, my breath catching at the way he looks at me, at the love reflected in his eyes.
Leaning forward more, I keep my eyes on his as I kiss my way up his stomach and chest, taking care to be tender where I know he’s still hurt. I trail kisses up the center of his chest, holding my lips longer over his heart as I climb to my knees to reach more of him.
Andrew moves two fingers to my chin, tilting my face toward his, then slides both of his hands deep into my hair, holding me there under the scrutiny of his gaze as I wrap my hands around his wrists.
“God, Emma, you have no idea how many nights I dreamt of looking at you just like this,” he says, and for a moment, his smile seems lost—he seems worried.
“I’m yours,” I repeat, needing to reassure him.
His eyes fall closed and he brings his forehead to rest against mine, his lips grazing lightly on mine with his breath until he sucks my bottom lip in between his and I feel the scratch of his teeth as he lets go.
“I will be the man who deserves you. I will, Emma. I promise,” he says, his breaths shallow, almost panting. I nod yes, knowing he’ll keep good on any promise to me—knowing he already deserves me, and I’m the one who has work to do.
Andrew slowly presses his weight into me, laying me back in his bed as he crawls over me with the grace of a tiger, his tongue licking his bottom lip and his hazed eyes raking over me with desire. When my head hits his pillow, his body cages me completely, his hands cupping my face gently at first, then growing stronger as he leans my head to one side, giving his mouth access to my neck and shoulder.
The sensation of his tongue drawing a line down my body makes me arch my back, and Andrew seizes the opportunity to sweep one arm behind me to hold me up, my breasts firm and barely concealed by the thin undershirt I’m wearing. Andrew’s eyes find the hard peaks of my nipples quickly, and he bites through the fabric, his tongue soaking the material as he makes each of my breasts his, working them into painful submission through my clothes.
Lying me on my back again, he leans his head down and grabs the bottom of my undershirt with his teeth, and I hold my breath, bringing my knuckles to my mouth as he slowly drags the bottom of my shirt up and over my breasts. The cold air makes the ache in my nipples sweeter, but I’m also paralyzed over the display of my scar. My mark isn’t subtle—there’s no way around being cut open three times, and I notice the moment the evidence of my transplant hits Andrew’s eyes. His breathing is steady, and as much as his body is still in a lustful trance, he’s also seeing a glimpse of our past—of reasons why and excuses and selfish requests.
“Your father told me,” he breathes, his eyes never leaving my scar. I can’t tell if he’s afraid of it or disgusted by it, and I part my lips with a worried breath as he speaks. Just as the sound leaves me, his eyes close and he leans down, kissing the dark pink of the center of my scar, the deep line that draws nearly the length of where my ribs meet. “I went to see him, to find out why…” Andrew swallows, his lips dusting against my body as he speaks, his strong arms holding him above me. “I just needed answers—why you didn’t write, why they lied to you. He told me. And as much as I wish you were the one who told me, I also understand why you didn’t. You were afraid of dying, Emma. And your father was afraid of you dying, too. I…” Andrew’s voice breaks, and his eyes finally lift to mine. “I would have feared losing you, too. So I don’t blame him, Em…for keeping my letters from you, for lying about where I was, for telling you to forget about me. I don’t blame him. I would have done the same if I knew it meant you were safe.”