Page 102 of Not Made to Last

I speak for the first time since Liv left us alone. “Yes.”

“Do you love her?”

She’s a hundred percent of my fifty.“Yes.”

“Do you hurt her, too?”

Also “Yes.”

56

Olivia

This entire shitshow of a day/night/early the next morning is laughable. It’s the only way I can describe it. And as Rhys watches me from the doorway of the laundry room while I dump vomit-covered clothes into the washing machine, it’s exactly what I do.Laugh. In a disbelieving, almost psychotic way.

“Are you good?” he asks, hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I bet the fucker wore them on purpose, just to fuck with me.

“I’mgreat,” I say, tampering down my insane cackle to a simmering giggle. I slam my fingers on the buttons of the washer to start the cycle, then turn to him. “You know what’s funny?” I don’t wait for a response. “Weeks ago, you were the one stalking me, and now you want distance, but you can’t get rid of me.”

He doesn’t deny my assumption, because why would he?

“Thanks for taking care of shit tonight,” I murmur, lowering my gaze. “I’ll walk you out.” I flick off the light, then try to pass him in the doorway, but his hand on my stomach stops me.

Heat emits from his touch, spreads throughout my entire body. I stop breathing when he moves his hand from my stomach to my hip, and he pulls gently, forcing me to turn to him. “Liv,” he says, his voice a low hum. We’re close. Closer than we’ve been in weeks. And he shortens that space even more when he dips his head, places his mouth right to my ear, and says, “You’re not small… and you’re definitely notinsignificant.”

I find bravery in his words, courage in his touch, and I look up and into his eyes—those slate-gray eyes that have seen more than they should. “Why are you saying this?” I choke out.

“Because you have the right to know.”

I glide my hands up between us, flattening my palms on his chest. “Rhys…”

His fingers find my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek. I shudder a breath when his forehead meets mine, and he inhales that air right into his lungs before his lips skim across mine. My eyes drift shut, my exhales pouring from me in tiny spurts, one after the other. My chest rises, falls, and I fist his T-shirt when his lips press to mine.

For weeks, I’ve dreamed of this moment.Prayedfor it.

He tilts his head, mouth parting just enough to glide his tongue along the seam of my lips. I fall. Into his arms and into the light. He presses me up against the doorframe, holding me steady as he deepens the kiss. His hand’s in my hair now, tugging gently, and I tilt my head so he has access to my neck. “Fuck,” he murmurs into my skin, and then his hands are everywhere, all at once, and my feet are no longer on the ground. They’re moving around him while he lifts me in the air. He steps into the laundry room and closes the door, shrouding the room with darkness. My ass lands on the washer, and his mouth lands on my breast, over my tank top, and I’m so dizzy with desire I can’t see straight. But I don’t need to see. I just need to feel him. His head. His shoulders. His back. His chest. His abs. His hardenedcock beneath the fabric of his sweats. He moans against me, his hand on my thigh, squeezing hard, just once, before slipping in through the leg hole of my loose shorts. His hand works fast, expertly, as he shifts my panties to the side and slides a finger inside me. I moan, so loud and so wanton, that he feels the need to cover my mouth with his. His tongue glides along mine while his fingers slide inside me, again and again, and then his thumb…. He flicks his thumb over my nub, and I tremor in his arms. I push down the band of his sweatpants, then his boxers, and wrap my fingers around his heated length. Fuck, I missed this. Miss him. Missus. He tugs me forward until I’m at the edge of the washer and pulls my shorts and underwear completely aside. Pulse pounding in my ears, I guide him to my warm center, but…

But he doesn’t push inside me right away, and when I try to deepen the kiss…

… he doesn’t kiss back.

“Liv,” he says, his entire body stiff beneath my touch. He drops his head to my shoulder but doesn’t release me completely. “I’m so sorry.”

I push him away as gently as possible and wipe away the sudden onset of tears, grateful he can’t see them in the dark. “It’s okay…” I was dreaming to think he’d actually want this. Wantme. I swallow the pain. Theshame. And throw back the words he’d said the first night we let our physical desires consume us.“It’s just biology, right?”

“Olivia, that’s not…” He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to.

I replace my clothes back where they belong and jump off the washing machine, ignoring the way he’s still close to me. Too close. I push past him, forcing my breaths to stay stagnant in my lungs so my cries don’t expel with my exhales. I open the door, wincing at the bright lights of the kitchen, and start for the frontdoor. His footsteps follow behind, and I don’t stop. Don’t look back at him when he calls my name. I make it all the way to the entryway before he catches me. Hand on my wrist, he tugs, forcing me to face him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. Again. And I don’t know if it is, but whatever I’m feeling—it’s not something I want to dissect with him standing right in front of me.

“Just give me a minute to explain.” His clothes are all skewed, sweatpants hanging off his hips, exposing the band of his boxer shorts. “I don’t know how to separate you.”

What the fuck does that mean?“What?” I huff, meeting his eyes.

“In my mind,” he explains. “You’re still two different people, and I don’t know how to separate you. And not evenyou—as in the two different versions of you—but I don’t know how to separate what was real and what wasn’t.”

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