Breathe For Me (For Me 1: Xander)

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chelsea walked faster and faster until she was running. But he kept pace with her every damn step of the way. Of course he did. Because she was still slow. She still had a leg that refused to recover, to be as strong as it had once been. Because it had been that badly broken. The damn thing was never going to be back to what it once was.

Nor was she.

"Chelsea--"

He'd followed her outside.

"I don't want you to do this." She kept her face away from him--even when he stood smack bang in front of her, less than an inch away.

"What do you want me to do then?" he demanded. "Why don't you tell me what it is you want from me?"

Startled she looked up. Her pulse skidded when she saw the alertness in his eyes, the energy in his body. The aggression.

He was as angry as she.

"What is it you want from me?" he repeated, even angrier.

His emotion was a tinder strike to hers. Fury rose. A tsunami built of muddy, confused emotions--frustration, fear, guilt. She didn't want him to try to fix her. She wanted him to fuck her. And that was all. Right?

"You want to get back in the water," he challenged. "I've seen the way you look at it. You want back in Chelsea. You do."

"That's something I need to do myself." She didn't want to deal with anyone else over this. Certainly not with him.

"Because you won't let anyone help you?" He shook his head. "It's bullshit."

"I don't need  someone to help me," she flung back at him. "I don't need someone to rescue me."

If anything he looked angrier. "But you need someone to get you off?" He stepped forward. "I don't want to be that guy anymore."

"Really." She crossed her arms and glared at his groin. The guy's erection from the kisses before was only just subsiding.

"I'm not that out of control," he growled.

"No," she murmured. "You never are."

"What does that mean?"

She just held his gaze, glaring at him.

"Isn't that how you like it?" The skin around his mouth whitened. "Isn't that what you wanted from me? To take the lead?" He shook his head in frustration. "This isn't about me, Chelsea." He spoke quiet, quick. Lethal. "This is about you."

That was the last thing she wanted. "I don't want you to--"

"You don't want to talk, you don't want to swim," he interrupted in a furious tumble of words. "Well save yourself the struggle, because I already know why. It's the accident. It's about the night your fiancé drove off the road and you both ended up in a river."

Chelsea reeled back like she'd been punched in the nose. Her eyes watered, pain howled through her head. He knew? How did he know? Horrified, she clapped her hand over her mouth. She stared as disbelief raged through her system.

"When did you find out?" She breathed harshly. How the hell had he found out? Who had he talked to?

He hesitated. "A day or so after the fire alarm." His expression blanked, his answer came calm and even. But his eyes never left hers.

She leaned against the wall, dropping her gaze to the ground. All this time he'd known? Since almost the moment they'd met? Before they'd even had sex? He'd known basically the whole time? And what had he made of that? Was this whole thing part of his wretched lifesaver syndrome? Had this been nothing but sympathy sex?