Her eyes close.
“I. Need. You,” I repeat.
She exhales a breath.
“I. Love. You.”
A tear sticks to her eyelashes.
“And I’ve never stopped.”
She bends down and presses her chest against mine, sending racks of shivers down my spine from the contact. We kiss. We cry. We breathe. And in the slowest, gentlest fashion possible, I flip us over and guide myself inside her until I’m seated fully.
I think about the past and kiss her.
I think about the present and caress her.
I think about the future and hold her.
But the cool depths of reality tell us that this moment is temporary, so we make the most of the weight and warmth and the need that our bodies crave. I vibrate with it so brutally as I slowly enter her again and again.
The softest exhale of my name from her parted lips as I take my time with her has me swelling. She wraps her legs around me, and angles herself up so I’m further in. We both moan as we find our pace, my body coming down completely on hers, and pushing as deep as I can until there’s no clear indication of who is who.
Her fingernails rake down my naked back, digging in with a pain that I welcome. I want her to mark my flesh and engrave herself into my existence for good.
Because I meant what I said.
I need her.
I need her fast wit and sarcasm.
I need every emotion—good and bad.
I need the feeling that has cemented itself so concretely in my chest that tells me how stupid I was when I was eighteen. So fucking stupid. I need it all, even if it destroys me and what I’ve built for myself because nothing compares.
So, I breathe the words over and over again, punctuating each one with the deepest thrust that brings us closer to the edge.
“I need you.”
The bed creaks.
“I need you.”
Her breath catches.
“I need you.”
Her nails pierce my skin.
My hips move into a circle, grinding down on her until she’s making the noise that is music to my ears. She tightens around me with every push, and the kisses I land on her chest, collarbone, neck, and lips all bring her closer and closer.
Yet, nothing quickens my pace.
This isn’t screwing or fucking or a one-time thing between people who don’t care. We’re consumed and that’s the problem. We care too much.
I make love to her slowly, finding her hands and intertwining our fingers because I need this—the contact, the warmth, the empty promise that rests openly between us. Once it’s over, then everything we’ve been through is final.
It’s over.
It ends.
And no matter how many highs we chase to find the feeling that’s stayed between us since the day I stepped foot into Lincoln, nothing can mimic it. The flutters. The spark. The restlessness.
When our tongues meet and our bodies jerk and our breaths mix, there’s no stopping from the climax that takes over us. Her hands let go of mine no matter how badly I want her to hold on, and she wraps herself around me in a tight hug as she milks my cock of cum.
Even after the tremors end, after our breathing evens, we stay like that. Wrapped up in a fantasy world like we can stay. The truth is there in the bunched sheets and scattered clothes.
This time, she’ll leave.
Resting in silence with nothing but traffic sounding in the distance, she traces my chest. Her fingers go to the very spots where two little lines used to be. She stills when she notices the slightly lifted ridge of a third one.
She sits up, staring at my chest.
Three tally marks.
“Corbin?”
I swallow, finding her hand. “I wasn’t completely honest with you about the tattoos. I do think we’re equal, that we’re meant to take on the world like nobody else. But these lines are so much more than that.”
The emotion on her face goes to her eyes, glazing them with oncoming tears. I want to brush them away, kiss her in comfort, protect her from the pain.
“Each line represents the moment I realized I loved you,” I admit, tracing the first one closest to my heart. “When you fell asleep next to Fred after helping me run lines.” My finger finds the middle line. “When you got me that audition for Christmas, one that neither of us knew at the time would change my life.” I move along to the newest one. “When I saw you walk onto set, looking so fucking beautiful it hurt. I knew, Kinley. I knew that my Little Bird would always be mine.”
Her lashes bat away stray tears, some catching in them until she wipes them away. “I don’t know what to say, Corbin. I’m…”
I pull her into me, hugging her warm body to mine and trying to make the moment last. I know it won’t. “Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you for a little while longer, okay?”
She doesn’t argue.
My Little Bird stays.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Corbin / Present
Extra security is placed on set and nobody is being let in without clearance first. It’s been two days since the pictures surfaced, so the media has died down enough to keep working. The absence of Kinley on set doesn’t go unnoticed though.
Bright and early Monday morning, Buchannan made the announcement that Kinley had to go back to New York. Despite the few weeks she spent with us, it’s obvious she made an impact. She always made an effort to talk with everyone on set, no matter what position they held. It was never just to get away from me, though I’m sure that was an added bonus on her part, but because she cared.
I step foot in the final scene before lunch, where Olivia is perched on the counter. Her long legs dangle over the side, and she’s only in an oversized button down white shirt with a few buttons keeping her from being completely exposed. She shoots me a wink when I situate myself where I’m supposed to be.
“So … Kinley, huh?”
From the corner of my eye, I notice Buchannan direct a few of the cameramen as to how he wants the scenes shot. “Not now, Liv. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her shoulders lift as she leans back, supporting herself with her hands. “Hey, why didn’t the cow read the book?” Her eyebrows wiggle at me right before she delivers the punchline. “He was waiting for the moo-vie.”
Her cackle just has me rolling my eyes, causing her to straighten and sigh. “Get it? Because Kinley wrote the book and we’re in the movie and you both came from the middle of—”
“Stop,” I warn under my breath. It isn’t often I let my anger get out when I speak to co-workers, but she knows I spent a lot of time and money to get the press to stay out of my business when it came to Lincoln.
She groans. “You do realize that people around here are going to find out, right? Those pictures of you two are only the first step. You know how this works. They’ll move on to the next big thing and circle back to speculation once you’re out and about looking mopey like your puppy ran away.”
My eyes cut to her. “There’s nothing for them to—”
“Nope.”
“Kinley is just—”
“Try again.” She inspects her nails. “You don’t want to accept that things will change, do you? They already have, Callum. Or can I call your Corbin?”