39. Chapter 39

39

Wren

" Y ou okay?" he asks, voice low and rough.

I want to tell him to fuck off, that I don't need his pity. But the words stick in my throat. Instead, I just nod, not trusting my voice.

His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away the tear I didn't realize had fallen. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender it makes my chest ache.

For a moment, we just stand there, his hand on my face, my heart doing somersaults. It's the most vulnerable I've felt in years, and it scares the shit out of me.

But I don't pull away.

D's hand is still on my face, and I can't seem to look away from his eyes. They're not as cold as I thought. There's something there, something warm and… Fuck, I don't know what.

"I'm fine," I mutter, my voice rougher than I'd like. I clear my throat, trying to regain some control. "It's not like it's the first time he's been an asshole."

D's thumb traces my cheekbone, slow and careful, like I'm made of glass or some shit. It should piss me off. I'm not some delicate flower that needs protecting. But instead, it makes my skin tingle.

"You deserve better," he says, voice low enough that I have to strain to hear it over the distant hum of traffic.

I snort, finally breaking eye contact. "Yeah, well, we don't always get what we deserve, do we?"

His hand drops from my face, and I feel the loss like a physical thing. Stupid. I'm being stupid.

I take a step back, needing some distance. My heel catches on a crack in the sidewalk, and I stumble. D's hand shoots out, steadying me. His grip is firm on my arm, and I'm suddenly very aware of how small I am next to him. Without my heels, the top of my head barely reaches his chest.

"Careful," he murmurs, not letting go.

I look up at him, a snarky comment on the tip of my tongue. But it dies when I see the way he's looking at me. Like I'm something… valuable. Worth protecting.

Fuck.

I don't know who moves first. One second we're standing there; the next, his fucking lips are on mine. It's gentle, so goddamn gentle it makes my chest ache. His hand cups the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair.

I've been kissed before. Plenty of times. But this… this is different. D's lips are soft, moving against mine with a tenderness I didn't think someone like him was capable of. He tastes like mint and something darker, something that makes my head spin.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He's so big, his body curving around mine like he's trying to shield me from the world. It should make me feel trapped. Instead, I feel… safe.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking permission. I grant it, opening to him with a soft sound that I'd be embarrassed about if I could think straight. The kiss deepens, and it's like a switch flips. Suddenly, it's all heat and hunger, his hands roaming my back as mine explore the hard planes of his chest.

I'm lost in it, in the feel of him, the taste of him. For once, my brain shuts the fuck up and just lets me feel.

A wolf whistle cuts through the air, followed by drunken laughter. "Get a room!"

We break apart, both breathing hard. A group of guys stumbles past, clearly three sheets to the wind. One of them, a lanky kid in a backwards cap, grins at us.

"Damn, gramps," he slurs, eyeing D. "Didn't know you had it in you."

His buddies crack up like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard. D tenses, his hand dropping to my waist. I can practically feel the growl building in his chest.

"Fuck off," I snap, glaring at the punks. "Before I shove that hat so far up your ass, you'll be shitting polyester for a week."

The kid's eyes go wide, and his friends drag him away, still laughing. I watch them go, my heart racing. Not from fear. From… something else.

I turn back to D, suddenly unsure. What the hell just happened? What do we do now?

He's watching me, his face unreadable. But his eyes… Fuck, his eyes are burning. It makes my stomach do a weird flip.

"We should…" I start, then stop. What? Go our separate ways? Pretend this never happened? The thought makes something in my chest twist.

D's hand is still on my waist, warm and solid. "We should get you home," he rumbles. "It's late."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As we start walking, his hand stays where it is. Like it fucking belongs there.