Page 68 of The Hearts We Fumble
“Fuck,” I groan, my control snapping as I rear back and thrust deep, claiming her the way I’ve been craving for so long.
She’s hot and tight and perfect andmine.
Her nails rake down my back, her moans filling the air as I press my mouth to her ear, whispering how fucking good she feels, how she was made for me, how I never want this night to end.
And as much as I regret the time we lost, I wouldn’t tradethis—her, in my arms, underneath me, surrounding me—for anything.
This is how it’s always supposed to be with her.
No matter how much time has passed, no matter the obstacles placed between us, I know—deep in my bones—that this was meant to be.
Even if nothing more comes of this, even if we wake up tomorrow and reality finds a way to pull us apart again, I’ll forever be grateful for this moment.
For her.
For the way she feels wrapped around me, her body trembling, her breath mingling with mine as we fall together—release crashing over us like a tidal wave.
I want to tell her.
It’s on the tip of my tongue—the words I’ve held back for so damn long. I want to tell her how I feel, to tell her what this means to me, to finally right all the wrongs I’ve made.
Instead, what slips out is,“I’m sorry.”
The silence stretches between us, and for a moment, I wonder if she even heard me—if I only said the words in my head.
Finally, her soft voice cuts through the quiet. “Sorry for what?”
I collapse beside her, folding my arms around her, tangling our legs together as I pull her against me.
“For the way I’ve hurt you,” I admit, my voice hoarse with the weight of it. “For making you think I ever regretted a second with you. For letting you believe—even for a moment—that I could see you as anything but mine.”
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing, eyes fluttering shut. I know she’s fighting it—the emotions, the memories, the pain I put her through.
“Zane, it’s okay—”
“Don’t,” I murmur, tightening my grip around her waist. “Don’t say it’s okay. Don’t minimize what I did. The way I hurt you.”
She exhales slowly, fingers tracing absent patterns against my skin. “I don’t want you to beat yourself up over it. I know you had your reasons. I pushed you away, too, because it was easier than getting hurt. I just—” She hesitates, then softly adds, “I know you weren’t ready.”
She knows. She’s always known.
All the pressure I was under—football, my dad, expectations so high they felt impossible to reach.
Her voice is quiet when she finally asks the question I know has been lingering between us since the night of the bonfire. The night I finally gave in. “So what’s changed?”
I meet her gaze, no hesitation when I answer.“Me.”
She blinks, brows drawing together like she doesn’t quite understand. I don’t expect her to—not yet. Hell, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it myself.
“You said it yourself—it was easier to push you away. And I let myself believe it was for the best. That you deserved better.” I brush my fingers down her arm, trailing along her skin, watching the way goose bumps rise in my wake. “But the truth is, I’m the best version of myself when I’m with you.”
She exhales sharply, turning to face me, searching my expression. “Do you really mean that?”
I cup her face, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “It’s the only truth I know.”
She bites her lip, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, and I hate it—I hate that I made her doubt me, doubtthis.
“The only time I ever lied to you,” I continue, “was the night I told you our kiss was a mistake. When I told you that you were like a sister to me.”
