Page 41 of Come Back To Me
“Maybe,” I retort.
“Here.” He strips out of his shirt, rolling it up and placing it on my thigh. “Hold that there until I get back.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling as light as a fucking feather and hold a finger the air above me, feeling drunk.
“Okay.” His wet lips press to my cheek, leaving traces of what he did behind when he leaves the room.
My eyes jerk to the hallway when I hear his footsteps approaching. He’s carrying a whole tray of supplies. Setting it on the nightstand, he perches himself on the bed again and lays his hand on my hand.
“Feeling okay?”
“Yeah.” I tangle my fingers in his and his lips lift into a small smirk.
“Good. Mm I love seeing my marks on you. I also love having a part of you inside me. Makes me feel closer to you. Do you feel it too? How lucky am I to get to experience and know you both inside and out?”
“Is that how you felt after eating the postman and cop too?”
His face turns sour. “No. That was eating out of obligation. When I eat from you, it’s a choice. It’s because there’s nothing else in the world that tastes better to me. No one else I’d rather be more connected with. It’s like we’re becoming one and your emotions mix with mine. They’re addicting. All of you is.”
“You used to call me addicting before too.”
“I meant every word.”
“I want to believe that.”
“Then stop fighting what I’ve already proved to you on more than one occasion and believe it.”
“I want to,” I say again.
“And you’re getting there.” He rubs his fingers through mine, pressing on the dressing. “Your friends will be here in two hours. I should have waited, but I can tell you couldn’t.”
“Could you?”
“No. Not when I could see how badly you wanted it. Now you can think about me even more when you’re gone as you walk side by side with other people.”
“I always think about you.”
“Now it’ll be non-stop. Prioritized over everything else.”
“Will you think about me?”
His tongue slides along his lips. “Yes.”
“What about him?” I test.
“Who . . . wait . . . we aren’t back to Arizona again, are we?”
“Arkansas,” I correct.
“Whatever.” His hand waves and he replaces his shirt with a saline-soaked gauze.
I wince. “You have to remember a little bit.”
“I don’t. I’m telling you, he wasn’t important enough to him—to me.”
“You forgot a lot of things. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t forget you.”
