Page 52 of Staying for You

“It’s not okay?”

“Oh, screw you. You know exactly what you’re doing with that… that… my goodness, Owen. What the hell?!”

“Would you like to clue me in here on what the problem is?”

“You look like that! And I…”

He rushes over to me and soon I’m on my back, hair fanned out all around me and my hands around his waist, legs spread to make room for him. “Don’t even finish what you’re about to say. You feel this?” He presses himself against me and does a little hip twist that has my eyes widening. “This is because you look like you do, talk the way you do, and act the way you do. This? It’s because ofyou.If I could meet your ex, I’d first shake his hand for being such a dumb shit that he let you go. But then I would kick his ass for making you believe you’re anything less than incredible. You. Are. Gorgeous. And I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since you walked into McDonald’s and smiled that smile.”

Anything else is forgotten. The fact that my ex-husband told me I was chubby as a term of endearment, that before he walked out of our house for the last time, he said he had to use Viagra toget it upfor me. Years and years and insult after insult are washed away in one fell swoop. Owen sees me as someone desirable and I haven’t felt that inages.

And then I become mortified for an entirely different reason than I was earlier.

I burst into tears, and quickly cover my face by turning to the side and pressing it into his mattress.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey. Hey. Cami, what’s going on? What did I say?”

“Everything,” I cry out, crying harder than I already was, which is shocking because I’mweeping.

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

I shake my head, face still planted in his covers. The tears are coming so fast. So furiously that I can’t even enjoy the fact that I’m lying in Owen’s bed, surrounded by all that is him.

Gently, he nudges my shoulder and tilts my head. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

Unfortunately, that only makes me cry harder because he shouldn’t be apologizing and I feel like crap for making him feel like crap. Maybe it’s close to my time of the month. That would help explain my ramped up hormones.

“It’s not you,” I finally squeak out.

Owen moves so he’s lying next to me, his arm draped over my waist under my shirt. The act isn’t sexual but rather comforting. We’re facing each other and he taps the place where his hand is resting on my hip. I squeeze my eyes closed tight then open to see him staring at me with empathy.

“Caring is sharing, you know.”

“It’s not you,” I repeat.

“Memories?”

I nod and his hand slides from over my hip, up my side with a little boob graze along the way until his thumb is on the apple of my cheek. “Beat those memories back for me, can you do that? Be here with me, you get me? Whatever is going through your mind, I’ll help you forget it.”

His words finally click and rather than letting them overwhelm me, I let themoverwhelm me.Because it’s exactly what I needed to hear. I’m more than the words of my past and it’s finally time to realize it. He’s amazing and gorgeous and he wants me. Me. Not my money or my success or the home or cars or things that I can provide because of it.

Rather than telling him my understanding, I show him. Pull his head down. Kiss his face. Everywhere I can, I kiss him and show him that I get it.

He rolls so he’s on top of me, looks down into my eyes then slams his lips to mine. Gone is the sadness, replaced entirely by a hunger that will only be satisfied by each other. Even in the beginning, it was never like this with Scott. He never made me feel like I needed to come out of my skin when I was around him.

I’m burning up so I start wiggling, trying to stay close but yet, I have to remove clothes before I burst into flames. Bless him, he understands, and raises up so he can help tug off my shirt. I expect him to stare but his mouth seems as attached to mine as mine is to his because he continues kissing me. Our hands are between us fumbling with the button and zipper of his jeans and waistband of my leggings. I almost groan when I can’t get out of them as quickly as I’d like. Damn comfortable pants! Why must they cling to me!

I huff, irritated. “Help,” I whimper pathetically. Owen’s answering grin, though, is worth it. He stands up, quickly shucks out of his jeans and kicks them out of his way, pulls off my fuzzy socks then wraps his hands around the bottom of my leggings and tugs. I raise my hips to help him out and as soon as they’re all the way off, he tosses them behind him, bends down and removes his own socks, and pushes down his boxer briefs.

He’s naked.

Completely naked.

I haven’t seen a naked man in so long.

My body is humming with excitement. Fingers itching to touch every inch and mouth watering to taste every. single. inch. Before, that was something I rarely felt inclined to do. It felt like a duty. I found no enjoyment and frankly, the act was never returned. Now, though, it’s a desire.

I was hungry earlier.

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