“Don’t,” I say strongly and close the small space between us.
“Don’t what?” he asks.
I can read his thoughts in this moment; I can see him reliving the terrible things he has done. “Don’t do that; don’t go back there.”
“I can’t help it.” He rubs his hand down his face in a slow yet frenzied motion. “Is that what you were thinking? That I knew about the tape, and that I let him watch it?”
“What? No! I would never think that,” I say honestly. “I only connected the tape from the gym to . . . to what happened before when you said something. It just reminded me of that—I never thought you were doing that now.” My fingers wrap around the tattered neckline of his black T-shirt. “I know you would never show anyone a tape of me.” I stare into his eyes, willing him to believe me.
“If anyone ever did something like that to you . . .” He takes a long pause and a deep breath. “I don’t know what I would do to them, even if it was Vance,” he grimly admits. Hardin’s temper is something I’ve grown very familiar with over the last six months.
I stand on my tiptoes so I can look him in the eyes. “It won’t happen.”
“Something terrible almost did, though, only last week with Steph and Dan.” A shudder shakes his shoulders, and I desperately search for the right thing to say to him to pull him out of this dark place.
“Nothing happened.” The irony of my being the one to comfort him now, when the trauma was actually something that happened to me, isn’t lost on me; but this role reversal speaks true to the nature of our relationship and Hardin’s need to blame himself for things he can’t control. Just like his mother, just like me. I can see this now.
“If he had been inside you . . .”
The words bring back vague flashes of memory from that night, images of Dan’s fingers running up my thigh, of Steph pulling at my dress.
“I don’t want to discuss the hypothetical.” I lean into him, and his arms wrap around my waist, caging me, protecting me from bad memories and nonexistent threats.
He glowers. “We’ve barely discussed it at all.”
“I don’t want to. We talked about it enough at my mother’s house, and this is not how I want to spend my newly cleared afternoon.” I give him the best smile I can manage in a failed attempt to lighten the mood.
“I couldn’t bear anyone hurting you like that. I hate the thought of him violating you. It makes me murderous—all I see is red. I can’t handle it.” Hardin’s angry expression has not lightened, only intensified. His green eyes burn into mine, and the rough grip of his fingers tightens on the span of my hips.
“Let’s not talk about it, then. I want you to try and forget it, like I have.” I caress his back with my fingers, gently begging him to forget the whole thing. It won’t do either of us any good to harp on it. It was terrible and disgusting, but I won’t let it rule me. “I love you—I love you so, so much.”
His mouth catches mine, and I wrap my fingers around his arms, pulling him closer to me.
Between breaths, I say, “So focus on me, Hardin. Only on m—”
I’m interrupted by the pressure of his mouth on mine again, possessing me, proving his commitment to both me and himself. His tongue is hard, pushing through my lips to massage mine. Hardin’s fingertips dig into my hips even further, and I whimper as his hands glide up my stomach to my chest. He cups my breasts, and I push into his body harder, filling his greedy hands.
“Show me that it’s only me,” he whispers into my mouth, and I know exactly what he wants, what he needs.
I drop to my knees in front of him and hastily tug at the lone button on his jeans. The zipper proves to be more of a problem, and I briefly consider ripping the jagged metal lining and destroying it altogether. However, I can’t bring myself to do this, considering how hot he looks in the tight blue jeans. My fingertips slowly graze over the light dusting of hair leading from his navel to the waistband of his boxers, and he groans impatiently.
“Please,” he begs, “no teasing.”
I give a small nod and pull down his boxers, letting them pool at his calves atop the bunched-up jeans. Hardin groans once more, this time much louder, much more primal, and I take him into my mouth. Slow movements and flicks of my tongue say the things that I try to instill in his paranoid mind, reassuring him that these acts of pleasure are different from anything someone could force me into.
I love him. I’m aware that what I’m doing now may not be the healthiest way to handle his anger and anxiety, but my need for him is stronger than my moral compass, which, at the moment, is smugly waving a self-help book in front of my face.
“I fucking love that I’m the only man who has had your mouth,” he groans as I use one hand to take what my mouth cannot. “Those lips have only been wrapped around me.” A quick movement of his hips makes me gag, and he reaches down to run his thumb along my forehead. “Look at me,” he instructs.
And I happily comply. I’m enjoying this just as much as he is. I always do. I love the way his eyelids fall closed with each long stroke of my tongue against him. I love the way he grunts and groans when I add more suction.
“Fuck, you know exactly . . .” His head rolls back, and I can feel the muscles in his legs tightening under my hand, which I’ve rested on him to steady myself. “I’m the only man who you’ll ever be on your knees in front of . . .”