Page 95 of Blades Out
I should've let go. Should've pushed past her and walked away. Should've done literally anything except stand there trapped between her hands and the wall, drowning in the scent of her shampoo and coffee and something uniquely hers.
"I'm trying to do the right thing." My voice dropped to gravel. Barely recognizable.
"For who?" She leaned closer. Close enough her breath ghosted across my jaw. "Because it's killing me. And it looks like it's killing you too."
I didn't understand her bravery. After all she'd been through…
And I was the fucking coward.
"My first time wasn't a mistake." Her words detonated through my chest.
The confession hung between us—quiet, raw, pleading. Her voice broke on wasn't, and the fracture in that single syllable tore through every defense I had left.
My first time.
First.
The implication slammed into me with the force of a charging forward. She'd given me something I had no right to take. Something precious. Irreplaceable. And I'd walked out like it meant nothing.
Like she meant nothing.
"Olivia—" Her name cracked apart in my throat.
She tilted her face up. Eyes shining. Determined despite the fear swimming beneath. Braver than I'd ever been. Braver than any woman who'd survived what she had should have to be.
And I was the coward. The one running. The one too terrified to reach for what stood directly in front of me, offering herself despite every reason not to.
Something inside me snapped.
The restraint I'd clung to for weeks. The control that defined every aspect of my life. The careful distance between want and action.
All of it shattered.
My hands moved before thought caught up—gripping her wrists, spinning her around, lifting them, pinning them above her head against the cold concrete wall. Gentle but absolute. Not restraint—desperation. Needing to anchor her, anchor us, before I fell apart completely.
She gasped. Soft. Surprised.
My forehead dropped to hers. Breathing her in. Close enough her exhale became my inhale. Our noses brushed. Her pulse hammered under my thumbs where I held her wrists together.
"I tried." The confession tore out of me. Raw. Broken. "I tried to stay away."
"Don't." Her whisper shook. "Please don't."
I kissed her.
No hesitation. No careful testing of boundaries. Just need—violent and consuming and months past restraint. My mouth crashed against hers like coming up for air after drowning. Like she was oxygen and I'd been suffocating since the moment I walked out of her apartment.
She made a sound against my lips. Small. Desperate.
Her body arched into mine, seeking contact everywhere we touched—chest to chest, hips aligned, her wrists flexing under my grip but not fighting. Not pulling away. Pressing closer despite being trapped between me and the wall.
I was drowning. Had been drowning since the first moment I saw her behind that café counter. Maybe longer. Maybe since the night I carried her out of that house fifteen years ago and felt the weight of her trust settle into my bones like permanence.
Her lips parted beneath mine. Invitation. Permission I didn't deserve but took, anyway.
The kiss deepened. Turned frantic. All heat and hunger and the taste of her—sweet and coffee-bitter and everything I'd been denying myself. My free hand found her hip, gripped too tight, pulled her impossibly closer until no space remained between us.
She whimpered. Arched higher. Chasing the contact like she needed it to survive.
