by Carian Cole
“Don’t apologize. I like your feisty, possessive side. I’m diggin’ it.” He leans over me, placing a muscular arm on either side of my head. His damp hair hangs above my face, dripping tiny droplets of water onto me. “Can I get a kiss?” he whispers.
The sensuality in his voice is undeniably the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. Amnesia or not—I’m damn sure of it.
With my heart racing at his closeness and his almost-nakedness, I touch his face, gently pulling him down to meet my lips.
A veil of hesitation always seems to wisp through our more intimate kisses. Our mouths touch softly, lightly at first. Tasting, questioning, before slowly deepening.
My hands tremble as I run them up to his wide shoulders. Everything about Asher feels so powerful. Not in a menacing way, but in the strength and uniqueness of his body and his mind. The depth of his devotion, the unspoken words in his quiet.
He reminds me of a rumble of thunder in the distance—untouchable, but has the power to be felt in every molecule of your being.
Being so close to him, having his eyes, mouth, attention, and body all focused solely on me literally makes me shaky and lightheaded.
He breaks away from my lips to move down to my throat, the contrast of his soft, wet tongue and rough beard igniting my senses. Sighing with pleasure, I turn my head to the side as he tugs the fabric of my shirt away to rain kisses across my collarbone, then to my bared shoulder.
“Can I take your shirt off?” he whispers.
I’m so caught up in him and all the tingles I’m feeling that all my worries about my body from earlier go right out the window.
I nod yes.
My T-shirt is slowly lifted up over my head, and he stares down at my bare chest, slowly trailing his finger down between my breasts to my stomach. I’m stilled, my flesh quivering beneath his touch. His palm moves to my waist, then skims up over the side of my thin rib cage.
His expression is intense. Unreadable. His gaze tracks his hand as it lightly moves across my breast.
Exhaling, he kisses my lips tenderly before lowering his head down to the base of my throat—inching farther to my chest as his hand lightly covers my breast, enticing my nipple to harden against his palm.
“You can touch me.” His voice is rough, on the edge of pleading. “I want you to.”
Where do I even begin to touch a man like him? I ache to tangle my fingers through his long hair. I’m overcome with that urge almost every time I look at him. I want to run my hands over his muscular back, down to his narrow waist. I want to yank off the towel and squeeze his amazingly hard butt cheeks.
Wrapping my arms around him, I part my shaky legs, and his body settles on top of mine. Hip to hip, chest to chest, flesh to flesh.
I’m all but buried beneath the breadth of him, reveling in his warmth, the smoothness of his skin, the unusual eroticism of all the dark tattoos pressed against me.
Our lips meet again, our breathing ragged. He slides his hand under me, cupping my ass, pulling me into him.
Spreading my legs farther apart, I grab the towel and slowly pull it from his hips and gasp when his cock presses against my thigh—rock hard, searing with heat, tipped with moisture.
For a brief moment I wonder if that’s tattooed as well, since 90 percent of him is.
I fight the urge to look. If it’s a tat of a snake or some other such ropey creature, I’ll never be able to look again.
Leaning up on his elbows, he stares down into my eyes, brushes his fingertips across my forehead, then my cheek, then my lips.
“I love you… I want you.” He kisses me softly. “Do you…?” The fiery emotion in his eyes finishes the question for him.
“Yes,” I whisper.
I do. I’ve daydreamed about making love with him. A lot. I’ve watched him from the window when he’s in the pool swimming laps, captivated by the fluid movement of his body. I’ve gone onto YouTube late at night and watched videos of his concerts, surprised at how fast I became a fangirl—craving his voice, entranced by his swagger across the stage, the toss of his long hair.
We kiss fast and slow and deep.
Inch by inch, he roams my body with his lips and hands. Kissing, licking, nipping. As he moves over me, his hair feathers over my flesh, caressing me. It’s an unexpected pleasure, and now I believe that I really did beg him never to cut it, long ago when I was the first Ember.
The sensations he’s gradually awakening in me are dizzying and new. I’m flushed, wet, and breathless, reaching to touch any part of him.
Our bodies fit against each other perfectly. My mind may not remember us, but my body does. It knows where to go, how to move with him. Closing my eyes, I wrap my arms and thighs around him, craving more, not wanting this to end. We moan together when his cock presses against me through the thin fabric of my damp panties.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, moving his hand languidly between us, skimming over my stomach and down between my thighs.
Our lips meet hungrily as he slips his fingers beneath my panties and gently caresses, eliciting waves of quivering ecstasy. My body trembles at the intimate touch. It’s new and surprising—exciting and scary—and it hits me that psychologically, I’m a virgin again.
The journals and the romance novels are words on a page. They pale in comparison to this kaleidoscope of desire, emotion, and angst thrumming through me.
My heart beats wildly when he slides my panties off and tosses them onto the floor with his towel.
The room suddenly feels amazingly quiet. Or maybe the pounding of my heart is drowning out all sound. I’m hyperaware of everything—the scent of his cologne, his deep breaths, his hand caressing my inner thigh, inching up to that part of me that’s still quivering.
We kiss hungrily. His tongue meets mine, and his finger slowly slides inside me.
Gasping at the unexpected quick stab of pain, I arch my back into the mattress.
Immediately he jerks away, lifting his weight off me and pulling his hand from between my thighs.
“I’m sorry,” he says in an agonized voice. He kisses my forehead fervently. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
His brow creases with concern, and he looks completely devastated.
I squeeze his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m okay. It just hurt for a second.”
“It feels too soon,” he says quietly. “You’re still so frail. Your body is still fragile, I can feel you shaking. And it’s been a long time since…” He inhales a deep breath. Since we’ve had sex, obviously. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I’m not sure when the room became so dark, but I’m grateful for the cloak it provides, because I don’t want to see his face right now, and I don’t want him to see mine.
Touching my chin, he turns my head toward him. “Baby, talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I swallow over the lump lodged in my throat. “You don’t want me.”
“Are you nuts? Em, believe me, I want you. I’m fuckin’ crazy for you. It just doesn’t feel right, right now. I’m afraid I’m gonna hurt you. Your body’s been through a lot.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head as I crumble inside.
“Shit. That didn’t come out right at all,” he says, pulling me against his chest. “You feel so delicate to me, and I’m petrified of hurting you or doing something wrong.”
“You’re not going to break me, Asher.”
“I know… I’m just so scared of something happening to you.”
He’s so, so sweet. In fact, he’s probably the sweetest man in the whole universe, and I know how lucky I am to have him.
But that sweetness is breaking me right now.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us as we lie naked together with the uncertainty of what to do next.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I assure him. “I’m totally fine.”
I move my hand to the back of his neck and guide his lips back to mine, hoping the rest of him will follow, but
he keeps the distance between us.
“I don’t want to stop,” I say softly, sliding my hand down to the muscular plane of his hip.
“I don’t want to either.” He leans his forehead against mine and closes his eyes, and I can feel the torment brewing in him. “But we should.” He grabs my hand from his hip and brings it to his lips, kissing my palm. “I can’t hurt you. We’ll try again when you’re stronger.”
“Ash—”
“Em, I’m way too worried about hurting you. You feel so tiny. I can’t. Please, let’s wait for the right time.”
My lower lip trembles at the rejection.
In his eyes, I’m a fragile little bird that could disintegrate or fall out of the nest and shatter at any second. Not a strong, sexy woman he can make love to for hours with no inhibitions and break furniture with when the bedroom is just too far away.
Yes, Ember. I read about your coffee table shenanigans in your journal.
Lifting his arm from around my waist, I sit up and put my T-shirt on.
“I think I want to go sleep in my room tonight,” I say.
“This is your room.” His voice is thick with dejection, and it makes my heart feel heavy, as if it will just completely sink out of my body into a black puddle.
“I kinda just want to read and be alone.”
“Don’t leave, babe. We can snuggle and watch a movie in bed. Teddy can sit up here with us.” He moves my hair away from my face to see my eyes. “Sex isn’t important to me, Em. That’ll come when it’s right. What’s important to me is that you’re okay, and we’re together.”
I nod and fight back the tears coming on. I want to believe his words and his endless hope, but it’s so hard to. “I know. I’d just rather be alone tonight.” I lean over and kiss his cheek before slipping my panties back on and leaving the room with Teddy on my heels.
Hiding in the guest room, I sit on the floor with Teddy and idly run my fingers through his soft fur as I try to sort out my thoughts. I feel completely rejected and confused.
Did the sight of my naked body and protruding bones turn him off?
Or is he honestly just scared of hurting me somehow?
Probably both.
He hates when I retreat back to this guest room, so I’m sure he’s just as upset as I am right now, which isn’t making me feel any better. But what am I supposed to say or do?
I should’ve stayed with him instead of walking away. I wonder if I did that in the past when we had a disagreement? Did I need time alone to get my head together?
I pull one of the diaries from the stack, unlock it, and flip to a random page.
Dear Diary,
I want to leave Ashes & Embers and start my own band with the girls. I know we’ll never be as popular and as good as A&E, but that doesn’t bother me. Asher’s an amazing vocalist, and I know the band is better having just one lead vocalist, not two. He’s the front man of the band, and he wants me up on stage, front and center, next to him. I love it, but I just don’t think it’s good for the band.
I don’t think the rest of the guys like it, either, even though they’re always nice and supportive. I don’t want to be a backup singer, like ever. I think it’s better for us to have some separation too. Not that I ever want to be away from him, but I worry that we’re so close, and together so much, and so involved in every single thing we each do, that eventually it’s going to weaken us rather than strengthen us.
Me and Aria have talked about this a lot and she also thinks that it’s best for me to have my own separate thing, for me. She’s right, I want to feel successful on my own, and I don’t want Asher to constantly feel like he has to take care of me, be there for me, do things for me. I’m worried that he won’t be as good as he can be if he’s constantly trying to carry me with him in his career.
I love that he wants me with him all the time and he wants to share his spotlight with me, but when we started the band, we never knew we’d get this far. I just think it’s time for me to let Asher fly with his career without me attached to it. I’m scared, though. Because if I do this, it’ll be a big step for me, and it’s a risk career-wise. It’s starting all over. It could flop.
If it does, maybe I can do something with my art. Or have a baby and be a stay-at-home mom. I could travel with Asher. I’m not sure. I’m worried I’m going to miss Ash like crazy when we have to be apart. I think I’m going to talk to him about it this weekend and see how he feels. Ugh. Why is life so hard?
Damn. She had no idea exactly how hard life was going to get.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I fucked up.
Pacing the bedroom, gnawing on a red raspberry CBD gummy bear, with the sweet scent of her still lingering on my fingertips, I know I fucked up bad.
I lied to her.
Sex is important to me. With her. I’m starved for that closeness with her. We always had an intense physical bond. It was like we could never get close enough. Ever. No matter what, we were always touching—even if it was only holding hands. We used to kiss for hours—we’d actually kiss until we fell asleep all tangled up in each other, lips still touching. Being with Ember satisfied every single one of my needs and desires mentally and physically. We could go from tender and slow to wild and erotic with zero hesitations. Every moment deepened our love and connection to each other.
Was sex ever the most important thing? Hell no. But as a couple who grew together from teen virgins and knew every single inch of each other’s bodies—knew exactly how, where, and when to kiss or touch—it was an important, comforting part of us.
Now here we are with this wall between us. Stacked up with bricks of awkwardness and confusion and regrets and fears and miscommunication and things we’ve never gone through before.
And worst of all, she thinks I don’t want her.
That’s like saying I don’t want to breathe.
I want her just as much as I always have.
What stopped me wasn’t lack of desire, love, or attraction. It was pure fucking fear of hurting this woman I love more than life itself, whom I watched wither away and almost disappear right in front of me. It almost feels abusive to lie on top of her frail body and start thrusting my cock into her when she’s only recently come out of a vegetative state. I’m afraid I’m going to bonk her head into the headboard and damage her brain. It’s not that I just can’t get pre-accident Ember out of my head, I also can’t get slowly dying, comatose Ember out of my head. Those visions of her, lying in a hospital bed, are burned into my brain.
I’m so fucked up.
I go out on the balcony to get some fresh air, but I can’t stop thinking about my wife, alone in the damn guest room, probably reading journals about her past, which no doubt are going on and on about how happy we were.
How the hell is that going to make her feel? Maybe I never should’ve given her the journals. If they’re not bringing back her memories, then it’s gotta be like reading the diary of a woman who’s in love with the man you’re trying to have a relationship with.
Fuck.
I grab my phone and send her a text.
Me: Hey you.
Ember: Hi
Me: Are you okay?
Ember: Are you okay?
We typed the same thing at the exact same time.
No. We’re not okay.
This isn’t us. We don’t do this, whatever the heck this is.
We talk. We bare our souls to each other. We stay together.
We don’t go to separate rooms.
We sure as hell don’t ever stop in the middle of sex.
For years, I was terrified she was going to die. I guarded her like a gargoyle watching over a sacred temple. I begged her to live. If I don’t start treating her like she’s alive, I’m going to lose her.
I toss my phone and dart down the hall to the guest room. She and the dog look up at me simultaneously from where they’re sitting on the floor when I push the door open.
“Ash…” Her eyes are puffy from
crying, and it’s like an ice pick to my heart.
I don’t waste a second. I take the journal out of her hand, and she lets out an adorable little yelp as I scoop her up in my arms.
She clings to my shoulders in surprise. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you back where you belong.”
She’s light as a feather as I carry her to the master bedroom and lay her on the middle of the bed. Not her side, not my side—but the spot where we meet together. Straddling her body, I yank my shirt off and throw it across the room.
Her tear-stained eyes widen, darting to where I threw my shirt, then back to me. She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. “Um, what’s happening?”
I bend down and kiss her parted lips.
“What shoulda happened before.”
Sitting back, I grab the hem of her shirt and lock eyes with her as I slowly lift it up. Silently, she lifts her arms, and I pull the shirt up over her head. Her eyes stay on mine, shy, but brave. She licks her lips nervously. Her gaze travels longingly down my chest, to my legs straddling her. As her eyes drift back up to mine, she lays her hands on my outer thighs and squeezes.
Her chest lifts with a slow inhale and shaky exhale as I stare down at her bare breasts. Reaching up, I cup her cheek in my palm, and she turns to press her lips against my hand. Her eyes slowly close. Her mouth lingers there, and she breathes in deeply, as if she’s savoring—or remembering.
My heart skips a beat, wondering if she knows she’s done that a thousand times before.
I drag my fingers down the side of her throat, then down to her chest. Slowly, I trace my fingertips around her breasts, between them, then circling them again. I’m entranced with how her skin tightens and puckers beneath my touch. My cock stirs when I cup her breasts in my hands and her nipples harden into my palms.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, as I continue to run my hands down her ribs, over her tummy, then back to her breasts. “My love for you has never changed. Not for a fucking second.” I refocus my gaze back on her big, green eyes. “I never stopped kissing you, cuddling you, and touching you. I never, ever, stopped wanting you.”