“Done.”
My heart ached.
His hand ran up my thigh and around to my ass, pulling my body against his. He kissed a line down my throat.
“Can I ask for one more thing?” I breathed.
I felt a smile on my neck. “You’re awfully needy today.”
I swallowed. “No women . . . not here, okay?”
He stilled for a moment, and with a sinking sensation in my belly I wondered if I’d taken it too far. If he would say no.
“That’s what you want?”
No. I want to be enough for you.
I want you to want only me.
“Yes.”
In the next moment of silence, the anticipation of his answer wrapped around my lungs and squeezed.
His face came up to mine. Our gazes met. Lips inches apart.
I wouldn’t take a simple ring off when he’d asked, nor would I kiss him. The knowledge settled between us, mixed with the smell of motor oil and summer.
What he didn’t know was that soon I would ruin everything to the point he’d never trust me again.
A thumb ran across my lips, down my chin. “Done.”
The band around my lungs released, though a tainted feeling remained. Thick as tar and black as night. Like a venomous snake in a tropical paradise.
“So loyal to your family,” he said quietly. “Yet you listened to me and not your papà. Why? Preventing a war?”
That’s what he expected. I could read it in the way he looked at me with a sort of forced detachment.
I did it because it felt right.
An unfamiliar ache began in my chest. A need for him to know.
I met his gaze, as golden as the glass of whiskey beside me.
“Maybe I wanted to,” I whispered.
He watched me for so many seconds it made my pulse race. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Come on. Let’s go inside.” He grabbed my hand and tugged me along.
I followed.
He was comfort, security, and need, all in one.
It had a name.
Home.
“A kiss that is never tasted, is forever and ever wasted.”
—Billie Holiday