Page 100 of You Owe Me

She doesn’t rush.

Not tonight.

Her mouth is soft and sure when it closes around me, like maybe this is her prayer—her way of asking for forgiveness without saying she’s sorry. For whatever she’s been hiding. For whatever Carter Mills has twisted her into. For the way she’s been slipping away from me, piece by piece, while I’ve been planning to disappear entirely.

I lean my head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut, breath catching on the first slide of her lips. The fabric is cool against my neck, a sharp contrast to the heat building everywhere else.

Dammit, I should stop her. I should say something.

But my words are locked behind the sensation of her tongue, the way she traces every inch of me like she’s trying to memorize it. Like she needs to know this is real, even if everything else between us isn’t.

My hands find her hair—soft, still smelling like that vanilla shampoo. I don’t guide. I don’t force. I just hold.

Because right now, I need something to hold on to.

The tension in my body unspools slowly, coil by coil, as she takes me deeper. Her rhythm is unhurried, deliberate. Everymotion feels like an apology she’s too afraid to say out loud, and I take it. I take all of it.

Her other hand presses gently against my thigh for balance, and I can feel her own breathing faltering—like she’s unraveling right alongside me. Her pulse is fast where her wrist rests against my leg, and I wonder if it’s racing for the same reasons mine is.

Not just arousal. Fear. Guilt. The weight of secrets that are getting heavier every day.

It’s not just physical.

It never is with her.

It’s an offering. A surrender. A way of saying all the things we can’t figure out how to voice—like I’m sorry and I love you and I’m terrified and please don’t leave me and I don’t know how to fix this.

And if I could speak, I’d tell her I see it. I’d tell her I feel it in every fucking cell of my body. I’d tell her that I don’t care why, I just need to know what she’s protecting me from.

I’d tell her that I have surgery on Friday and I’m scared as hell, and I’ve been lying to her about it because I thought it would be easier than watching her worry.

I’d tell her we’re both drowning and maybe we should stop pretending we know how to swim.

Instead, I let my head fall forward and whisper her name into the dark.

“Ainsley…”

She hums around me, and the vibration shoots straight through my nervous system like electricity. And I swear, that hum breaks me more than any confession ever could.

Because it sounds like goodbye.

I come undone in her mouth with a shudder that starts in my chest and radiates outward like aftershocks.

Quietly.

Because this isn’t the kind of moment you ruin with noise.

The taste of copper floods my mouth—I’ve been biting my tongue to keep from saying her name too loud, from begging her to stop, from begging her to never stop. My whole body feels like it’s been rewired, every nerve ending singing with the kind of release that’s equal parts physical and emotional.

She swallows, and the sight of it—intimate, deliberate—sends another wave through me. Then she rests her forehead against my thigh, her breath coming in short puffs against my skin. The warmth of it makes me shiver despite the heat still coursing through my veins.

She breathes like she just survived something.

I think we both did.

My fingers slide out of her hair—silk between my fingertips, still slightly damp with sweat—and down to her jaw. Her skin is flushed, warm to the touch, and when I lift her face gently, I can see everything she’s been trying to hide.

Her lips are swollen and dark, eyes glassy with unshed tears, mascara smudged like war paint under her lower lashes. There’s a vulnerability in her expression that makes my chest tight—not the heart condition kind of tight, but something deeper. More dangerous.

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