Worth the Risk
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MatureComplete Tue, Apr 11, 202311h 13m
August & Colin | WRU series | book 1
We take risks. We make mistakes. We lie. We love. We hurt. We lose total control.
I took a risk. I paid the price.
I made a mistake. I felt the guilt.
I lied. I lie.
I loved. I try not to.
I hurt. I still do.
I lost control. I'm losing again.
I try to stick to my plan, I try to follow my rules, I try to silence my heart, I try to keep control of the domino stones that represent my life.
But one domino fell and the rest just followed.
***
"We shouldn't do this," he whispers against my lips. I should applaud him for having the strength to act on that thought because I haven't been able to. At one point I wanted to, but his touches made the impulse to stop vanish. Now, the only thing I want to act on is the longing inside my chest as I think about demolishing the space between us.
"Do you want to stop?" I can feel his frown against my forehead. He nudges my nose before placing a featherlight kiss on my mouth. His hands slide over my jawline, his thumbs slowly caressing my cheeks. He gives me another kiss. Slow and deliberately, as if he's still debating the answer to my question as he slicks his tongue over mine. He softly sucks on my bottom lip, dragging it with him when he pulls away.
"I can't," he confesses before he presses his lips back on mine.
***
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.
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