Page 67 of Meet Me Back Here

“Forrest!” I scold with a laugh. “You’re going to break the room.”

“I don’t care,” he growls as he tosses me onto the center of the bed.

When I land, feet planted and knees bent, the loose sweater dress I’m wearing bunches up around the creases at the tops of my thighs. Forrest looks positively feral as his eyes trail all the way up my bare legs, drinking in every dip and curve.

“Jesus Christ, Cam,” he says, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to break me.”

So, I let my knees fall open.

The sound that tears from Forrest when he reaches up the bed to grab one of my ankles makes my lower belly clench deliciously. The yelp that bursts from me when he drags me to the bottom of the bed has him grinning.

“Tell me you forgive yourself,” he demands as he drops back to his knees and starts squeezing his way up my calves.

I prop up on my elbows. “I forgive myself,” I say.

“Convince me,” he says, and it sounds like the most sinful request on the planet. His hands reach the inside of my knees, and he opens my legs further, pressing me into the mattress. If he looked down, I know he’d see the damp spot on my panties, but he won’t shift his eyes from mine.

“Do you want me to stop?” Forrest asks.

“I really don’t,” I say. I want him to know how badly I want him.

“Then I need you to tell me what happened with us was not your fault.” His thumbs are digging into the soft skin of my thighs, but they haven’t moved any further up.

I groan and drop my head back, ignoring his order.

“Brat,” he taunts.

I can’t stop my smile when I look back at him, but I feel much less cheeky when one hand jumps to the top of my thigh, and Forrest’s thumb starts tracing the elastic of my underwear, brushing, just for a second, over my center through the cloth.

The touch is like a ghost of a memory. Of legs tangled on a too-small dorm bed. Of hushed voices and stifled moans so our roommates wouldn’t hear. Of exploring and tasting and testing.

When I involuntarily squirm, Forrest raises his eyebrows at me, quite pleased with himself. I press my lips together and look to the ceiling, but I feel my resolve crumbling. I may have started this game, but I’m ready to surrender.

Forrest’s touch disappears from my legs, and I look back down my body to find him pulling his sweater over his head. After tossing it aside, he finds eye contact again as he opens the buttons on his shirt one by one.

“Was it your fault?” Forrest asks.

I open my mouth to say yes, just to rile him up, but when he shrugs his button-up off his shoulders, the sound dies in my throat. Knowing I can touch him now makes seeing him like this so much worse than a few days ago.

And it wasn’t all my fault.

“Hm?” Forrest prompts as he stands and takes off his glasses, carefully closing them and setting them on the little dresser behind him. When he turns back to me, he unbuckles his belt. He knows he’s winning.

“Say it,” he urges as his pants drop to the floor.

“I—”

Forrest hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, and I can see him straining against the fabric.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I croak, surprised my voice works at all. And all at once, I feel a rush of relief that I didn’t expect, like saying it out loud is freeing me.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I say again, and somebody—maybe it’s me?—lets go of the angry grip they had on my heart.

“We needed to be better to each other,” I admit, and Forrest nods.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me too,” I answer.