Damaged 2 (8 page)

Two
can play this game. I lift my hand to his cheek, and he freezes. As soon as my
palm touches Peter's skin, that overly confident expression fades from his
eyes. I trail my hand over his cheek slowly. Neither of us breathes as the pads
of my fingers travel over the scruff on his cheek and down to his jaw. I lean
in, like I'm going to kiss him. At the last second I push his face aside with
the hand that's on his jaw and step past him with a satisfied smile on my face.

I
think that's it. In the teasing contest, I'm the clear victor, but Peter
catches my wrist. He gently stops me. That confident smile slips off my face as
I turn back to him. Peter takes hold of my face with one hand on each cheek and
dips his head. My entire body tingles, waiting for that kiss. Our eyes are
locked together, each of us daring the other. Peter lets out a jagged breath
and inhales again slowly. I feel the warm air on my face.

Last
time we were like this, the idea of being with him scared me, but now I'm
curious to see if I could do it, if I'd like it. My body is humming, but no one
moves. It's like there's a glass wall between us and neither of us can break
it. Peter's lips linger just in front of mine, parted ever so slightly. As his
lashes lower, his gaze is singularly focused on my mouth. My eyelids feel heavy
when he gently touches me. Peter's hands slip back into my hair and down my
neck to my shoulders. He lifts one hand and caresses my cheek again.

I'm
trembling all over by the time he does that. I don't know what I want. For some
reason, I still trust him—but I don't. It feels like there are two women living
inside my head. One is touch-starved and the other is too independent to want
anyone, for any reason. She's fighting me, wildly throwing every image, every
misguided memory at me, but I can't move. I don't want to pull away, so I
linger, enjoying his touch and the feel of his breath across my skin.

Peter
blinks slowly. Every time his lashes close, I think he's going to kiss me, but
he doesn't. My heart pounds harder in my chest, making me feel crazier by the
moment. His hand strokes my cheek again, and I clutch the towel hanging over my
shoulders harder.

This
time when Peter's lashes lower, he closes the distance. His lips brush against
mine so lightly that it feels like a breeze. I tense as he does it, but Peter
doesn't deepen the kiss. Instead he pulls back and looks into my eyes. The
expression on his face makes me press my knees together to stop the current
that's pulsing through my body. He makes me want things I never wanted.

It
feels like I'm coming undone, but I don't feel scared, not this time. I do
something crazy and lean in. I brush my bottom lip to his and shudder as I do
it. Peter's hands are on my neck again, playing with the edge of the towel. He
watches me for a moment and leans forward slowly. When his lips touch the side
of my face, I inhale deeply and close my eyes.

Peter's
kiss is so light, so soft that it makes me want more. I blink slowly like I'm
half asleep. It feels like I'm floating, and I don't mind so much. It's scary,
but the fear isn't choking me the way it usually does. I don't think about
anything. I push the thoughts away, because nothing is the same anymore. The
way Peter touches me is nothing like Dean…
He's nothing like Dean
.

The
thought frees me. I rise up on my tippy-toes and take his cheek in one hand as
I press our lips together. My kiss isn't light, like his. It's breathless and
demanding. Peter's palms cup my face as the kiss deepens. I lose myself for a
blissful moment. There are no thoughts, no worries. There's just Peter and his
warm, soft lips that are kissing me so perfectly that my knees feel weak.

When
he pulls back Peter is all jagged breaths. His forehead presses to mine as he
watches me from under his lashes. I'm breathing too hard as well, but the more
I try to control it, the worse it gets.

Peter's
eyes drop to the place where I'm holding the towel around my shoulders. He watches
me as he lowers his hand and takes hold of mine. I think he's going to take it
away and I tense, but he doesn't. Instead Peter holds it tight and tells me,
"Let go. I'll hold it for you."

His
words hit me so hard that my jaw starts to tremble. Tears prick my eyes as I
try not to cry. I've wanted to reach up and hold his cheek in my hand and run
my fingers through his hair, but I can't do any of that if I'm holding on to
the towel.

Peter
realizes what his words do to me. He leans in and kisses my cheek gently. The
kiss gives me courage. I'm so nervous that he'll put the towel down, that he'll
let it go, but the offer is too much to ignore.

I'd
wanted to touch his face, but when I release the towel and he holds it in place
for me, my hands drift down to his chest. I drag my fingers over the toned
muscles, feeling him beneath my fingers. Before I drift my hands down his
stomach, I rub my thumb over his nipple, feeling the tight little bit of skin
under my hand.

Peter
inhales deeply, but he doesn't move. He blinks slowly and continues to watch me
as my hands drift farther south. I feel each taut muscle of his stomach until
I'm stopped by the waistband of his jeans. I trail my thumbs along his stomach
and around to his back. I feel the scar on his side as the pad of my finger
moves over it. I wonder if he feels the memory when I touch that spot. Scars
never heal, and every time one gets touched, the memory that made it flares to
life. I'm like that, but this is so different than anything I did with Dean
that there are no memories to recall, no scars of tender touches to try and
repress. This is new for me.

Peter's
eyes close as my hand moves over his waist. I know the memory is flashing
behind his eyes because he becomes rigid in my arms. I want to make it better;
I want him to forgive himself for what happened. When he opens his eyes again,
they lock with mine and his sorrow is no longer hidden. It's reflected in his
eyes with so much regret that it's difficult to maintain his gaze. I'm no
longer blinking or breathing.

The
vulnerability on his face makes me do it. I lift my hand to the spot where he's
holding the towel. I take his hand in mine and pull it away. My heart beats
harder, but I don't let go of him. Peter doesn't look when the towel slips from
my shoulders and falls behind me. I can't hide the tremors that shoot through
me. I feel naked in front of him, even though I'm not. Peter's wearing less
clothing than I am, but I feel so exposed. If he hadn't reacted that way when I
touched his scar, I couldn't have done it.

But
I did, and now I'm standing there in a threadbare shirt with my nipples at full
attention. I don't want him to look, but I want him to. As I breathe in, my
chest brushes against his. The contact without the towel in the way shoots
through me like a bolt of lightning. My breath catches in my throat, and when I
look up at him, Peter seems equally speechless.

His
head dips again and he kisses me harder this time. His hands are on my face and
then in my hair. They drift over my shoulders and down my back, gliding over
the fabric as his tongue does wicked things in my mouth. The pit of my stomach
falls down an elevator shaft and hasn't hit the bottom yet. I can't breathe
like a normal person. I sound like I ran a marathon even though I haven't taken
a step.

Peter
breaks the kiss. Between breaths he presses his lips to the sides of my face
softly, gently. His hands remain on top of my shirt. He doesn't lift the hem
and slide his hands under. Instead, he presses his body against mine as he
kisses me senseless.

I
hold on to him tight, digging my nails into his back so he doesn't fade away.
Peter nudges my face to the side as he trails hot kisses down my throat. My
head falls back and I close my eyes, feeling each kiss as his lips press into
me over and over again. When he stops, I look up at him.

Peter's
lips are parted, and he's breathing hard. "We should stop."

I
nod. "We should." It's something I know in my mind, but my body doesn't want to
acknowledge it.

Peter
makes the decision for us and steps away. He runs his hands through his hair
like it's torture to stop touching me. When he looks over his shoulder at me,
his eyes fixate on my chest.

I
stand there, ramrod straight, and let him look. I know he can see the outline
of my excited breasts and the pale skin tones through the shirt. Nerves swirl
in my stomach, but I don't move. Peter doesn't look away. His eyes stay glued
on my chest.

After
a moment, I manage, "My eyes are up here, Professor."

Peter's
gaze lifts slowly and meets mine as a sinful smile spreads across his face.
"Say that again."

The
corner of my mouth tugs up as I lazily point toward my face. "My eyes are up
here."

Peter
steps toward me but doesn't touch me this time. He stops within arm's reach. A
dimple surfaces on his cheek, and I have the insane desire to lick it. My eyes
flutter away from the spot and lock with his. "No, the other part. Call me
professor
again." Peter looks hopeful, more like the man I met in Texas. The look he's
giving me is like the one he had when we were dancing.

I
can't help but smile girlishly. I look up from under my lashes and whisper,
"Dance with me, Professor."

Peter's
smile broadens. He holds out one hand and I take it, while the other hand slips
around my waist. If he was anyone else, I'd worry about his boots crushing my
toes, but Peter never steps on me. We rock-step a few times before he spins me
away. When he spins me back, I twirl into his chest, where he holds me tight.
My hands slip around his waist and over the scar. I watch as Peter's eyes fill
with memories he can't control. The smile fades like a star in sunlight, until
it's completely gone.

Peter
blinks a few times, like he's waking from a dream. He releases me and turns
away. When he grabs his sweats off the bed, he bends over and picks up my
towel. Peter turns back to me and places it over my shoulders and holds it
tight in front until I take it.

He
gives me a sad smile and says, "Thank you."

I
nod slowly, not understanding. It feels like rejection, but in the back of my
mind I know it's more than that. He's stuck, trapped in his past as badly as I
am, or possibly more.

"I
know there's no future for us," he says. "I screwed things up too badly in the
past and I get that, but I really need a good friend right now and I know you
do, too. This"—he inhales deeply and gestures between us—"can't happen again. I
know that, but—"

I
cut him off. I walk over to him and kiss his cheek before saying, "Peter,
shhhhh. I'm your friend at the very least. At the very most, why don't we just
wait and see?"

He
looks at me like I'm a mirage. His eyes are so wide, so vulnerable. "I'm not
the man I was before. I'm not Pete Ferro anymore." His eyes dip to the scar
that wraps around his side. "You don't understand—she changed me in a way I'd
never thought possible. I stopped fighting, I stopped doing all the shit that I
was known for. Finding the right person is the kind of thing that you only get
one shot at, and I fucked it up. I lost her.

"My
life changed that night and no matter what I do, I can't get things back the
way they were. Then I met you, and I thought I was wrong." He looks up at me,
looking completely lost. "When I saw Dean, something snapped. If the old guy hadn't
pulled out his gun, Sidney, I don't know what I would have done. I can't tell
if I was justified or not, but every time I see that guy it's like…" He
squeezes his hands tightly and swallows whatever he was going to say.

I
watch him because I can't look away. This feels like a moment where everything
is bending to the point that it's going to snap. I know what he means; I know
it too well. I'm afraid to touch him, afraid to step forward, but I manage. My
hand slips onto his forearm. The muscles are corded tight as if they'll break
at any moment. Peter twitches when my skin touches his. He gazes down at my
hand and then up into my face. "You're not Pete Ferro anymore. I get it. I'm
not the same Sidney that walked around Jersey all those years ago, either. What
was taken from us, we don't get back, Peter. It's just gone. It's like the land
after a fire, charred to pitch black and barren."

He
shakes his head. "No, not for you. Somehow you pulled out of that for the most
part. I see it in your eyes."

"I'm
wearing a towel to bed, Peter." I give him a sad smile. "I know I'm mental. I
accepted it. I trust you and I still can't drop this thing." I tug the towel
tighter around my shoulders.

"You
did before."

"That
was different." I look away. Emotions run through me with an intensity that
makes me want to run into the woods and live with my turkey. I step away from
him, but Peter takes my hand. The connection doesn't break. As long as he's
touching me, it feels like he can see inside my head, and that scares me more
than anything. There are monsters in there, memories I don't want to remember.

"Why?"
His voice is so soft and kind. It's like cashmere, delicate and enticing. If I
answer him, that voice promises too many things that I thought I'd never have.
My lower lip quivers involuntarily. Peter's gaze fixates on the tiny twitch and
he lifts his hand and presses a finger to my lips. His eyes flick between his
finger and my eyes.

"Tell
me." His finger slides away, leaving my mouth open and gasping like there's no
air.

"I…"
I can't say it.

I
want to tell him, but I can't. I close my eyes and look down, but Peter doesn't
let me stay that way. His hand slips under my chin, and he tilts my head back.
Our eyes meet and the rest of the world melts away.