Written in the Scars(24)

His eyes draw slowly to mine. “I’ve proven I can’t live without you.”

“Don’t even say that to me,” I gruff, tears tickling the corners of my eyes. His words, coupled with the look on his face, would break me if I let them. “You don’t have the right to say those things to me! This was a marriage—” I yell, as he cuts me off.

“It is a marriage—”

My hand shakes as I glare at him, pointing my finger at his face. “No, it was a marriage, Ty, and you walked out.”

“You told me to!”

“Yes, I did,” I say, biting back the memories flooding my mind. “But I didn’t mean it. I just said it in the heat of the moment and you took full advantage.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw ticking, but he doesn’t respond. He just stands there looking at me like he doesn’t know where to start.

“A marriage isn’t something you can just come and go from as you please. You ruined this. Not me.” My voice is steadier than I anticipated and it gives me some courage.

“You’re right,” he says carefully, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I ruined it and I will fix it.”

“That would mean I want it fixed.”

The hallway closes in on us, the air between us hot and thick. We just stare at each other, feeling each other out.

“You have no idea—”

“No!” I yell, my hand going back into the center of his chest. It’s wet and hard and feels so familiar. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me. To us!”

His hand wraps around my wrist and my breath escapes in a smooth gasp. The contact, skin-to-skin, is not something I’m prepared for.

It’s not fair.

Bending down so his face is inches from mine, he says, “To us. Because it’s still us, E.”

I snort, trying to ignore the feeling of his touch. The corner of his lip curls, his gaze darkening. The look is ferocious and as he takes a step towards me, I take one back.

“Don’t act like I don’t know what us means, Elin,” he snaps, taking yet another step forward. “Everything I do in my life is for you.”

“So walking out on me was for my own good? You did that for me?” The cockiness in my tone is to hide the anticipation of reaching the boiling point. We are almost there. I feel it, the temperature rising and ready to topple over. I just don’t know which way it’s going to fall. “Gee, thanks, Ty. That makes this so much easier.”

Thunder cracks outside just as my back hits the wall. My chest rises and falls, touching his with every intake of breath. He peers down at me, his eyes boring into mine.

“There hasn’t been a damn thing easy about this,” he says, his breath hot against my skin.

“That was your choice.”

I try desperately to hold on to the anger that’s being replaced quickly with my need, my desire, my craving for this man. The only man I’ve ever loved. The man that is my other half—whether it’s f*cked up or not. Being this close to him puts me at a disadvantage, but there’s no denying the little balm of peace that’s washed over some of my wounds by his presence. By his touch. By the way he’s looking at me.

“It sure as hell didn’t feel like my choice,” he gruffs.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” I say, the words full of hesitation. “Maybe we aren’t the same people anymore. Maybe we’ve changed. I know you’re not the Ty I once knew.”

“No, you’re right,” he says with an arrogant shrug of his muscled shoulders. “I love you more than I ever have.”

“Fuck you,” I say, a slip to my voice that he hears.

His eyes glimmer, distracting me, and I don’t see the kiss coming. But the feeling of his lips against mine sends a zip of energy screaming through my veins.

“Ty!” I object half-heartedly, pressing him away with only a portion of the gumption I could put behind it if I wanted to. He doesn’t care. He just kisses me harder, his lips soft and smooth like I remember.

My knees go weak, like it’s some kind of first kiss, my breathing ragged like the first time he kissed me under the steps at the high school.

He drops his grip on my wrist and clenches my hips with both hands. His lips are unrelenting, working mine with such precision, such skill, that it’s all I can do to follow along.

And really, it’s all I want to do.

Our kisses grow quicker, our breathing more labored. My head is spinning, shouting at me to stop the madness. My body, my heart, lobbying in tandem to stay put because this is where I’m supposed to be.

I can’t process the arguments. All I can do is fall into an easy rhythm, be played like an instrument in the hands of the man that knows it like the back of his hand. A man that’s played it a million times, that’s crafted how it plays by his touch.

My fingers find the back of his hair and I lace them through his wet locks. He growls against my lips, the heat of his breath tingling my mouth and eliciting a fire between my thighs.

His fingers dig into my hips, his body pressing mine into the wall. The intensity of the contact at every level makes me desperate for more.

Ignoring the tick of my subconscious that tries to remind me why I shouldn’t be here, my hands hurriedly find the hem of his shirt. It’s wet and heavy, and when my skin touches the defined lines of his abdomen, we both flinch.