Break My Fall (Falling #2)

by Jessica Scott

  I want this. Holy god, but I want.

  "I don't want to be alone," she whispers.

  I slide my hand over her cheek, cradling her face. For a moment I just stand there, savoring the feel of her skin beneath mine, the sensation of touching someone I care about. For a moment, it doesn't matter that I'm broken, that I can't love her fully and right like she deserves.

  For a moment, she is enough.

  I nip her bottom lip. Her breath huffs into my mouth and I want to swallow the sensation and savor it. I press my lips to hers. She opens for my hesitant touch, her tongue brushing against mine, twining, dancing, tasting.

  An erotic twist of moist, delicate strokes.

  She makes a warm sound in her throat. "I live very close to here."

  I am suddenly a very thankful man. "You don't mind that I've been drinking? I might not be able to get it up." The truth, hidden in an alcohol-laden confession.

  "You're not a violent drunk, are you?"

  I lower my forehead to hers. "Not with women."

  She slides closer, her body aligned with mine. Until I can feel the inhalation of her breath.

  "And we already know you're very good with your mouth," she whispers in my ear. Her breath is hot. My body shudders with arousal, dark and needy and far too long denied. I can almost imagine a shiver of sensation in the vicinity of my dick.

  I smile and nip at her ear. "That was just a warm up."

  This time, it is Abby who shivers, her body trembling. I can feel the shift in her. The lithe, erotic tension twisting through her sinews, making them soft and supple.

  She buries her face in my neck. "Oh god, just the thought of that is making me crazy."

  "Of what?" I whisper. "Can you say it?" I press my lips to her neck where the pulse is scattered and quick. "Tell me what you want?"

  We are standing in the street, bathed in overhead light. She is pressed to me, her body as close as it can be while fully clothed.

  And I have never been more aroused. More fully aware of someone else's need, throbbing through her and into me.

  It is powerful what I can do with my mouth, my words.

  It is not enough.

  It is everything.

  Chapter 18

  Abby

  It takes an extreme amount of confidence to whisper dark and dirty things to a lover. Even more to do it in a public space.

  It requires trust to whisper those forbidden things. Those intimate, private longings we can't even admit to ourselves.

  I close my eyes, holding on to the sensation of Josh's mouth on mine. The memory of his body pressed to me in the dark.

  I tell my friends to be brave. To go after the brief moment of happiness they might be able to capture in the dark interludes between loving and hurting.

  I tell Graham to be brave. To walk away from the violence of a lover who hurts him.

  I cannot say those same words to myself. I am not brave. I cannot whisper the things I want to do with Josh. I cannot put voice to those words.

  I am a coward hiding behind a carefully manufactured façade.

  "Come home with me?" I whisper instead, taking the easy path to promises of pleasure.

  He smiles against my mouth. "Is that the best you can do?"

  "I'm not very creative."

  He makes a warm sound, deep in his throat. "We're going to have to work on that."

  "I think I like that plan."

  I take his hand, reluctantly stepping away from him to lead him the few blocks to my apartment.

  It's small but it's just me living here. I don't have a lot of furniture. I have a thing for secondhand shops, especially in this part of North Carolina where old and new money intermingle freely.

  It's not Spartan, but it's functional and it’s mine; the first space I've had that's totally mine. No roommate. No expectations.

  Which is why there is a pile of unfolded laundry on my couch.

  Josh smiles when he sees it, then draws me closer to him until there is nothing but silence and heat between us. "I knew you couldn't be perfect."

  "I'm far from perfect."

  "Not from where I'm standing."

  "You're poetic when you've been drinking."

  If I hadn't tasted the whiskey on his tongue, I wouldn't have guessed he was drunk. He isn't slurring. He isn't staggering. He's more relaxed than normal. A little more handsy in a slow, sensual kind of way.

  "Can I touch you?" A harsh, guttural whisper against my lips.

  "Yes please."

  His lips part. His breath is a little more ragged. A little quicker.

  Seeing his body tense sends a spike of need straight to where I am hot and aching for him.

  "Would it be too forward if I stripped down right here?"

  He smiles darkly. "Not at all. I think I would like that very much." He leans in, tracing his lips down my throat. "Especially since I can't get you to tell me your fantasies."

  I press my hands to his chest, urging him backward until he sinks down to my secondhand chair in the Target slipcover.

  I've never done this. I don't want to overthink it.

  I turn down the lights, leaving only a faint glow from the lamp over the kitchen stove. There is enough light that we are not cast in darkness. The shadows dance over his face. I can feel the need radiating off him.

  Slowly, I feed one button after another through the fabric of my blouse, peeling it open. Heat pulses between my thighs. He's watching me. It feels like a physical caress.

  I turn my back on him, glancing over my shoulder at him as I slip the white fabric over my bare shoulders. First one, then the other until it falls to the floor.

  He doesn't notice. His eyes are on me.

  I am not afraid to do this. Not afraid to let him see me. All of me.

  I unhook my pants and slide the dark fabric down my hips, inch by inch. His gaze follows the edge of my pants as I reveal myself.

  The other night, neither of us explored much. It was raw and ragged, hidden in the dark.

  Not tonight. Tonight, the lights are on. Low, but on.

  And they hide nothing. I can tell the instant he sees them. The raised scar on my shoulder. The starburst on my ribs that I hid with his comforter the last time.

  I knew this was a risk. But tonight, I need him to see all of me. To see the perfection I can create with my smile that hides the deeper, damaged truth.

  The reality of the violence that I too have lived. Not as an adult in war. No, not that.

  But as a child. As a little kid made helpless by a grown man's insecurity and rage.

  I am eleven years old again, trying to find the words to tell my teacher where the bruises on my arms came from.

  Or to explain to the emergency room nurse how I cut my own shoulder.

  But the real hurt isn’t in the scars or the violence that caused them. It’s in the verbal cuts that I wasn’t good enough as I was. That if only I’d change who I was, I would be worthy. Loveable.

  The scars are my private shame. That I wasn't strong enough to fight back. That I fell down and did not get back up. That I changed who I was, despite fighting so hard to stay the same.

  I will not be that person again.

  I step into the space between us and settle each of my legs on either side of his hips. My thighs are spread wide and my core, aching and wet, is separated from him by a thin piece of functional cotton that feels woefully inadequate.

  He strokes his thumb over the jagged scar on my shoulder. "Looks like this hurt." The softest whisper.

  "Belt buckles tend to."

  He glances up sharply and there is violence in his eyes now. Restrained. The good kind of violence. The kind that lashes out to protect.

  It warms the cold space inside me. And like a frozen thing seeking the heat, I cannot break away.

  Josh

  It is one thing to live through violence. It is one thing to be the instrument of someone else's death and to take pleasure in protecting your brothers from the evil th
at would do them harm.

  It is quite another to see the evidence of violence etched into someone else's skin. A permanent reminder that there are things we will never outrun, will never forget.

  There is nothing I can say to take away the pain she clearly lived through. I cannot make her forget it. I cannot hurt the man who hurt her.

  And I'm not nearly drunk enough to do something stupid, like demand she give me his name and let me use my friends in the Army to hunt him down and make him hurt.

  Instead, I do the only thing I can think to do.

  I press my lips to that scar. I can feel the raised edge of it beneath my lips. The salt on her skin is sharp and tangy. Fear, laced with arousal.

  People who say that scars are evidence of things you were strong enough to overcome haven't felt the weight of the shame in those scars.

  I can see her wrestling with it. Struggling to keep it buried and under control.

  "How old were you?"

  "Eleven."

  I slide my hands over her ribs. Over the starburst there and up until they are flat against her back, drawing her closer to me, until her mouth is a breath from mine.

  She lowers her forehead to mine. "It was hard tonight. Going with Graham."

  “You saw me get into a fight at the bar the other night. Why didn’t that upset you like this?”

  “I think because it wasn’t…it wasn’t a relationship. It…it didn’t feel personal.”

  I am wrestling with the need to hunt this bastard down. Not just for hurting Graham. But for hurting Abby through her friend.

  "Will he go back to him?"

  Because that is the most likely result. At least in heterosexual relationships. No matter how committed someone is to leaving, they tend to go back. More than once. It takes years of trying to break free from a bad relationship.

  I don't know if it's the same in the gay community or not.

  But I know it will hurt her if he does.

  "I don't know," she whispers. "He's my best friend. And I hate this."

  I pull her close, tucking her head against my chest and simply holding her. The alcohol is numbing my reactions. I should be angrier. More pissed.

  And I am.

  At that moment, there is something more important I need to focus on.

  Abby.

  I slide my hands over her back. Soothing, gentle strokes. My fingertips barely skimming the softness of her back. Tracing the edge of her bra. Teasing and light, I can feel the transition my touch evokes in her.

  And the stillness where my own response to her need should be.

  I reach behind her, flicking open her bra and inching it over her shoulders. Her nipples are deep russet pearls against her skin. She's so fucking beautiful, she hurts my eyes.

  I can’t look away as I lean in, watching her reaction as I take her in my mouth. A tiny nip of my teeth against her sensitive flesh. It tightens beneath the wet slide of my tongue.

  Her eyes are heavy and dark. Liquid gold. I bite down gently, cupping the soft swell of her breast as I taste her. Her lips part, and she arches a little bit in silent offering.

  I trace the edge of her other nipple with my fingertip as I torment the first. Her skin glistens where I've touched her with my tongue, my teeth.

  She threads her fingers into my hair, dragging her nails along my scalp. She spreads her thighs further, pressing her hot core against me. Instantly, my hand is on her, stroking her where she is swollen and moist and hot. Beneath her panties, my fingers find her. Swollen, so swollen. I drag the fabric down in a single movement.

  She's so fucking wet.

  I don't ask for permission. I am lost in the purity of her response. In the need to make her forget everything but my mouth, my fingers, my touch.

  My name.

  I slide my finger from the top of her swollen clit down the seam of her body and lower, to the tight, forbidden knot below where she is welcoming and open for me. She tenses but doesn't pull away.

  Trust.

  Again, I slide my finger over her body. Down. Against her tight, secret place. Until she relaxes. I flick my tongue where she is swollen and she nearly flies apart against my lips.

  I suckle her, sliding one finger deep inside her wet heat. Stroke after slow stroke, I feel her relax and tighten, a sensual erotic dance.

  I want her to forget her own name. Slowly, so slowly, my fingers inside her, I press my thumb against that secret, tight spot. Her eyes fly open and her cry is a thing of beauty.

  But I don't stop now. Gentle, circling pressure, stroking her body with my fingers, my tongue.

  But it is my thumb in that secret space that does her in. I press against her. Not seeking entry. Just a gentle, erotic slide against her most sensitive flesh.

  And then she is coming apart. Beneath my finger, my lips, she shatters, her thighs gripping my shoulders. Pulling me closer and pushing me away all at once. Her breath ragged and torn from her lungs.

  My heart swells in my chest as I finally relent and pull her against me. Skin to cotton. Heart to heart.

  And beneath my own heart is a tiny seed of hope that maybe, just maybe, there is a chance I could get my life back. That it could be my cock inside her when she comes. That I could feel her body surround me and wrap me in the pleasure of her touch.

  But for now, feeling the glow of her orgasm spreading over her like a warm sunset, I am content.

  And her pleasure is enough.

  Chapter 19

  Josh

  I like her apartment. I like lying with her in the tiny space and feeling the world fall away. It's nothing like mine. It's a tiny loft with little hints of Abby scattered around it. I smile when she turns on the light and she catches me watching her.

  I smile, thinking of the pile of laundry on the small couch a few feet away. "Laundry day?"

  She makes a wry grin. "Had no choice. Ran out of panties."

  My throat goes dry at her words. I slip my hands over her lush hips. I love her curves.

  I hope she's strong enough for me and all my bullshit.

  But I'm not going there. Not yet.

  I lean in and press my lips to the base of her throat where her pulse is scattered. "That's a hell of a visual," I whisper.

  She is pressed against me on her bed, her body wrapped in a sheet. I’m still dressed, my clothing more than a physical barrier between us.

  I close my eyes. I am suddenly terrified of losing her. But I can't do this to her any longer. I can't be selfish here, no matter how dark and lonely the night will be without her.

  I've only known her a short period of time but I need her like air. I need her. Abby. She is my light in the darkness. My rock.

  I hesitate, unable to speak.

  Waiting. Like she expects me to tell her I've got some incurable disease and have two weeks to live.

  "What's wrong?" There is fear in her golden eyes. Hesitation and warmth where there had been only warmth and desire.

  I suck in a deep breath. There is nowhere for me to go. I could avoid this once more. Use my mouth to drive her to mindless pleasure.

  But sooner or later, she'll figure things out. And if I'm not honest with her, if I don't tell her now, I will destroy the very woman I'm falling for.

  It helps that I'm a little drunk. It makes the shame a little easier to bear.

  I take her hands. I can't find the words for a long, long moment. Finally, I guide her hand to the fabric covering my useless cock.

  Her breath hitches as her palm curls around me. I can feel her. A forced, cautious smile at the edge of her lips. "You don't seem very excited to see me."

  I swallow the fear. God but her hand feels good on me. It's been so fucking long since anyone has touched me there. Since I've touched even myself. I close my eyes and lower my forehead to hers. "It doesn't work anymore."

  She stills and says nothing. I suppose it’s a victory that she doesn’t pull away.

  I hold my breath, waiting for her to step away from me. To leave me,
alone and broken and useless.

  I close my eyes, avoiding the shame. Avoiding the pain.

  My lungs are tight. It hurts to breathe.

  She slips her hand free from mine. My skin is cold where she touched me.

  My heart shatters in my chest, breaking into a thousand tiny pieces.

  I feel her move.

  "I'll go."

  Then she stuns me. Her palm is warm as she urges my face up. Her body is warm as she slides across me, her legs on either side of my hips. "Why on earth would I want you to do that?" she whispers.

  I swallow the lump that suddenly blocks my throat. "I can’t…You didn't hear me wrong, Abby. I can't…"

  Her palms are warm and gentle on my skin. Suddenly all I can feel is the warmth of her skin against my cheeks.

  I want to reach out. I want to touch her. But I am gutted with shame.

  She leans closer, and her breath is a soft huff against my skin. She presses her lips to the center of my forehead. "I don't care."

  Her words fall on disbelieving ears. She can't be telling the truth. She simply can't.

  "We can't have sex, Abby." I can't look at her. "I…you deserve someone whole. Someone who isn't a fucked-up half-man."

  She presses her index finger to my mouth. "Don't talk about my friend like that," she whispers.

  “That was pretty corny.” I laugh weakly. "You can't tell me that sex doesn't matter to you."

  "Of course it does." She shifts and rocks gently against me where I am useless and soft. "But sex is more than just insert tab a into slot b."

  I groan softly at the terrible joke. "You’re on a roll with bad jokes."

  "Yeah, I know." She lifts my chin, her fingers pressing against my cheeks. She brushes her lips over mine, teasing and soft. "You've made me feel alive in a way I haven't in a long, long time."

  I glance up at her. She is surrounded by light, her skin cast in shadows, the color of dark honey. "You're serious?"

  "I guess you haven't been paying attention." She smiles wickedly. "Your penis isn't what I like about you."

  I choke on a horrified laugh and drop my head to her chest. Her arms circle my shoulders and hold me. In the thousand different ways this could have gone, I never imagined it would be like this.