Archer's Voice (A Sign of Love Novel)(84)

His eyes opened and they roamed my face for several beats, his expression almost reverent, before he said, I'm in love with you too. He let out a breath. I am so desperately in love with you. His eyes widened as if the words that he had just "spoken" were almost a surprise. His lips parted and his hands asked me, Is it enough, Bree?
I let out a breath and smiled, allowing myself to take a minute to rejoice at the knowledge that the beautiful, sensitive, brave man in front of me loved me. After a second I said, It's a really good start. I shook my head slightly, looking down. The rest we'll figure out, okay? I took his hands in mine.
Vulnerability washed over his expression as he nodded at me, his face conveying his doubts. My heart squeezed. What's wrong, Archer?
After a few seconds, he leaned forward and took my face in his hands and kissed me tenderly on my mouth, his lips lingering there as he rested his forehead on mine and closed his eyes. He leaned back and said, I love you so much it hurts. And truly, he looked pained.
I smiled a small smile at him and brought one hand to his cheek, and he closed his eyes for a beat before I brought my hand away. It doesn't need to hurt.
He breathed out. It does though. It does because I'm afraid to love you. I'm afraid that you'll leave and that I'll go back to being alone again. Only it will be a hundred times worse because I'll know what I'm missing. I can't… He sucked in a shaky breath. I want to be able to love you more than I fear losing you, and I don't know how. Teach me, Bree. Please teach me. Don't let me destroy this. He looked at me beseechingly, pain etched into every feature on his face.
Oh God, Archer, I thought, my heart squeezing tightly in my chest. How do you teach a man who has lost everything, not to fear it happening again? How do you teach a person to trust in something none of us can guarantee? This beautiful man that I loved looked so broken, sitting before me expressing his love for me. Expressing his devotion. I wished with all my heart that that could be a happy thing for him–but I understood why it hurt.
Loving another person always means opening yourself up for hurt. I don't want to lose more than I already have either, but isn't it worth it? Isn't it worth giving it a chance? I asked.
He searched my eyes and nodded his head, but his own eyes told me that he wasn't convinced that he meant it. I took a deep breath. I would make it my job to make him believe. I would believe strongly enough for the both of us if I had to. I took him in my arms and then scooted over so that I could climb up on his lap and nuzzle him more closely. "I love you, I love you, I love you," I whispered, smiling, trying to make this moment a happy one.
He smiled back and put his lips against mine, mouthing, "I love you, too," against my mouth, as if he was breathing love into my body.
I kept breathing against him, and after a while, he started fidgeting slightly, adjusting me on his lap. My pulse rate quickened as my body reacted to his nearness, his smell, the feel of his big, hard body right up against mine, and specifically something hard and hot pressing into my hip.
I reached my hand down and rubbed the bulge at the front of his jeans and smiled against his neck. "Are you constantly hard?" I asked, my lips against his skin.
I felt him chuckle silently against my chest and smiled at the fact that the sadness and tension from a few minutes before seemed to dissolve as our bodies heated. I leaned back and looked at him, tenderness and desire shining in his eyes. He brought his hands up. Yes, when you're around–it's why I'm always grimacing. He faked a pained expression.
I tilted my head. "I thought that was just your natural personality."
That, too.
I laughed and when I put more pressure on the grimace-causing bulge in question, he closed his eyes, his lips parting.
When he opened his eyes, he asked, Do you miss hearing the sounds I might make during sex if I had a voice? He watched my face as I thought about that.
I moved a piece of hair off his forehead and then shook my head slowly. No, I don't think about that. I don't rely on the sounds you might make to read you. I watch your expression and your eyes. I leaned in and brushed my lips against his mouth and then leaned back. I listen to your breathing and the way you dig your fingers into my hips right before you're about to come. There are so many ways to read you, Archer Hale. And I love every single one of them.
His eyes glittered at me before he moved forward suddenly, grabbing my face in his hands and laying me back down on the couch before coming down over me. I had a feeling the time for talking had just ended. Butterflies took up flight between my ribs and my belly clenched. I moaned, a deep, breathy sound that came up my throat, and let him take over, arching up into him, my core beginning to throb insistently. How was it that this man had just started having sex, and only with me, a couple weeks ago, and yet I trusted him with my body over anyone more experienced I'd been with before? Archer, overachiever that he was. I smiled into his mouth and he smiled back into mine, although he didn't lean back to ask me what exactly I was smiling about. I swept my tongue inside his mouth, the taste of him making me feel like I was going to combust–how could the inside of someone's mouth taste so delicious that it made you instantly dizzy with lust? It had been hours since I'd had a sip of beer, but I felt drunk on him–drunk with love, with lust, with something indescribable that I couldn't even name, and yet it owned me, body and soul–some kind of primal connection that must have been there before I existed, before he existed, before he or I ever breathed the same air, something written in the very stars.