“Tell me you trust me,” he said, his voice barely controlled as he pounded into my body.
But I didn’t know if I trusted him. The truth was, it didn’t matter if I trusted him or not.
“I would die for you,” I said instead, because it was true. Trust was irrelevant. He could break my trust a hundred times, and I would still die for him.
He walked me forward a couple of steps and bent me over the top of the balcony rail, as if testing my claim. Only the tops of my shoulders and my head were floating, but the near-invisibility of the balcony gave the illusion of much more.
“I would die for you, too,” he said. “I don’t care.” And then he gave me everything he had, surging up into my body with the strength of ten men, showing me with his body what could not be said with words.
“In prison, people build themselves up. They construct a… a version of themselves that they think is most likely to get them out of the situation with as little damage as possible. It’s not a lie, exactly, but they emphasize some traits, cover some up. They say certain things but keep others private. And it’s armor, just like doing push-ups and lifting weights to build up their bodies. And you just… I don’t know, if you pay attention, you learn to translate it. You see which parts are armor and which parts are weapons.”
He strokes his thumb against my neck. Our faces are so close I can feel his breath warm on my cheek, see the jagged scar that breaks his eyebrow and the frown lines on his forehead.
“Armor,” he goes on. “Armor’s not dangerous. That’s for survival. It’s weapons you have to watch out for. And you—” He strokes my lips with his thumb. “It’s mostly armor, Colin. And when you’re with me, the armor falls away. Who you are without it… it’s beautiful.”
❤️❤️❤️ Still one of my favorite scenes. ❤️❤️❤️
“Careful, Colin.” His hold on me turns to a caress, fingers stroking the nape of my neck. His eyes may be teasing, but the heat there is real. What would he do if I leaned up and kissed him? If I wrapped my arms around him? God, have I ever hugged a man before? When Mom died, Pop hugged me, I think. Luther did at the funeral, too. But not since then. A few girls have hugged me at bars. Flirtatious pressings together that I think were mostly about rubbing their tits against my chest. The idea of Rafe hugging me—shit, even the word sounds childish—pressing against me, holding me, our whole bodies in contact—makes my heart beat faster.