Page 132 of Burn

“Why are you crawling?”

“If I stand, I’ll more than likely end up here so I’ll save myself the effort.”

Drunk Caleb is pretty logical.

I get him on the couch, and we’re sitting next to each other, him staring straight ahead in silence, his whiskey on the end table, his breathing low and steady.

As I’m eating my red velvet cupcake, I notice his appearance a little more. He’s silent, face impassive. He’s gone inside. He smells like smoke, and his hands and arms are covered in bruises and cuts. There are also all kinds of black smudges covering him. He hasn’t showered since the fire.

“What happened?” I ask, my tone dancing unevenly as I twist to face him, my legs pulled up on the couch.

He ignores my question and leans over, grabbing me by my ankles, and I’m on my back with him hovering over me. “I don’t want to talk. At all.” His voice is dark and serious, the green in his eyes nearly swallowed by the widening of his pupils.

He grabs my hips to position me in line with his, his knees spread my legs, and his hands work on his belt buckle hastily and then unzips his jeans. All the while, his eyes are on mine, dark, pleading, wanting . . . aching.

His chin begins to quiver and angry tears surface. I’ve never seen someone so broken when I finally allow myself to meet Caleb’s pained expression. I cry against his chest, silently, gripping his shoulders. Pulling him in, this is me letting him know it’s okay to take refuge he so desperately needs. His eyes never leave mine, hurling me into the darkness he’s captive to.

The arms of the man I thought could never break down hold me, pulling me into his embrace. And then he’s kissing me, trying to love me, but he’s also tugging down my panties. Holding both my hands over my head, he looks down at me.

“Tell me no. Don’t let me do this to you,” he begs again, pushing his jeans down to his knees, trying to fight his desire and need for this.

I don’t listen. I don’t want to.

“It’s okay,” I tell him through tears. My hands seek his erection between us. When I grasp him firmly, he groans, his head falling forward, and it sounds like he’s starving. “I wantyou, Caleb.”

“Do you know what you’re asking for?” He plants his right hand firmly on the arm of the couch, his other resting by my head as he moves closer, his legs shifting, trying to gain room we don’t have on a couch. His whiskey breath blows across my face when he whispers, “You shouldn’t want someone like me.”

“I do though. Always.”

His arms tremble with resistance, and he leans in further, giving me a warmth so intense I’m lightheaded, suffocating in the presence of his grieving.

Engaging my stare, his eyes are a regretful storm. He sighs, shaking his head, hands trembling but wanting to go further. “I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles.

“I want you here, Caleb. I do.”

Pressing his weight forward, his hips connect with mine, no barriers, and his eyes fall between my legs, watching as he enters me.

Caleb’s jaw flexes and he drops his forehead on mine, his sorrowful eyes bearing a repentance he’s buried so deep inside of him it might never leave him.

Sadness grips me, his arms desperately holding my body to his all the while his tears never let up. The sight of his tears wreck me. Uncontrollable trembles move through him as he drops down on top of me, burying his face in my neck and soaks my skin with his sadness.

“Caleb, it’s—”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want me talking. Clamping his mouth over mine, he drowns my words with, “You’re beautiful,” as he harshly slams into me, but his words don’t sound like a compliment. It sounds robotic.

His thrusts are harsh, and I’m not prepared for how rough he’s being, hands gripping me so tightly like his life depends on this. I think in this moment he believes it does.

I know he’s fucking me because the last thing he wants is to feel what’s going on inside of him and he thinks, no, he’sprayingby fucking me it will rid him of these demons. I’ve never felt so powerful and so weak in my whole fucking life. I can offer him something. I can take away this pain if only for a fraction of a second by providing myself.

It’s certainly not right, but I don’t stop him. I think in some ways this is what he’s done with me all along. It’s why he constantly showed up at the hotel when his shift was over. He can’t explain the reasons and the only way for him to forget whatever is haunting him are these brief moments when he’s either fucking someone, or drinking.

Judging by the tears falling, he’s done both tonight and neither has worked yet. It hurts that he’s using me, but it’s nothing compared to the desolation that I can’t give him what he needs.

His lips press into the side of my neck, whispering, “I’m sorry.” Kissing the side of my throat and the corner of my mouth, he angles my face to kiss under my chin and my throat again. “I’m sorry,” he cries against my lips.

I don’t know why he’s apologizing, but the words feel more like goodbye, as if he’s trying to let me go. I can’t have that. I can’t have him saying goodbye.

Pulling my hair to the side, he uses his teeth against my neck, barely brushing but enough to make me moan in pleasure, his lips hovering over my ear. “I’m constantly fucking up.”

---