Page 38 of Burning Embers
I groan, because yes she does, but in the best kind of way, making me want to bend her over and wrap her hair in my hand. She steps closer—it’s too much. I can’t keep fighting this current between us. I lean down, my mouth skimming her earlobe. “In a way that makes me want you, yes.”
She gasps, her head moves at the same time as mine, and then we’re kissing. I reach around her waist, grab onto her arse, and squeeze. I collide with the stairs, and then she’s straddling me.
She breaks the kiss, her eyes unfocused. “Woah,” she says, and I sit up, lifting her off me.
“Sorry.” I shouldn’t be kissing her, not when it’s likely she has concussion. Gently, I move the hair away from her face. She looks beat up. “Bath?” I ask
“Hmm, I guess, but it’s odd,” she replies.
She follows me upstairs, hand gripped in mine, I only let go to turn off the tap when we reach the bathroom. “Not really, I thought it might help. You may not feel it now, but come tomorrow morning, you’ll feel like you were run over by a herd of cattle.”
She bites on her lip, shuffling from foot to foot.
“I’ll stay close in case you need me,” I say, and I don’t know if that only adds to her unease. “Or I can take you home, and you can have a bath there…” I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
“It’s not that,” she says, sitting on the closed toilet lid, eying the tiles with a precision inspection. “I’m confused. What are we exactly? I mean—what’s going on between us?”
“Well, we are two consenting adults who like each other.”
“I get that. But what I mean is, I’m not casual. I’m not just out for...” She doesn’t finish her sentence as she picks at some lint on her yoga pants.
I crouch down in front of her. “I like you, Rachel, and whatever this is between us, it’s not casual—not to me.”
“I haven’t been with anyone since falling pregnant with Molly, and I’ve only been with two people,” she says in a rush.
I physically lean back on my haunches. She’s fucking killing me. “Princess, look at me.”
When her eyes meet mine, they have so many doubts, questions, uncertainty. I almost want to laugh. “We can take it as slow as you want. If you want to see where this can go, there’s no hurry.” I wave my hand between us for emphasis. Her lips curve into the cutest smile.
I jump up and dash to my room. “Here,” I say when I pop back in with joggers and a t-shirt. “There are some towels and toiletries under the sink.” She quirks her eyebrow and then winces—yep, shiner. “My sister comes to visit,” I reply, and it causes my heart to lurch.
I love my foster family, but I miss my biological sister. We were young when we were separated, but my fondest childhood memories are with her. I don’t remember what happened after the fire; there was so much commotion, so many strangers, paramedics, firefighters…and then there was the police. I was taken straight to a children’s burn unit.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, standing up, searching my face.
“I miss my other sister,” I reply honestly.
“Then have her come visit.”
“I can’t. I mean, I don’t know where Lottie is. After the fire, we were separated, and I haven’t seen her since.” The ball forming in my throat makes swallowing an effort. I clear it and point over my shoulder. “I’ll be in my room. If you need anything, just holler,” I say, closing the door behind me.
RACHEL
I’m left entirely at a loss for words.
His eyes were full of a deep-rooted hurt, an ache he buries deep at the forefront. It’s the same ache I’ve had in my chest ever since I lost my Nan. She was the best of us, held my family together with an invisible thread.
As soon as she was gone, it severed. All the family cared about was what they were entitled to inherit. Like they all had some claim over her possessions. I strip out of my clothes and stand in my sports bra and knickers, looking at my reflection.
I double-take. Damn, my eye has seen better days.
Olly has the power to break me; my feelings for him are already so much stronger than they ever were for Marcus. Is this what Olly wants? A single mum with a sketchy future at best?
He’s nothing like the guy behind the bar. Everything I thought about him was what hewantspeople to see. He does so much for charity, it puts me to shame. And don’t even get me started on his eye for design—his kitchen is a determinate to how talented he is.
I don’t know why he doesn’t pursue architecture or design. Maybe he’s just a free spirit at heart. He cares for people by giving them hope, showing them they are stronger than they realise.
When I’ve bathed and changed into the entirely-too-big bottoms—which I had to roll at the waist twice—and in his oversized t-shirt that has me inhaling his scent like a psycho, I step out into the hallway and hesitate at his open door. I peek inside—he’s lying on his bed, staring at his phone.
