Insecure (Love Triumphs 1)
Page 7
Her expression changed. She shook her head, pushed away, struggled out of his arms. He let her go.
“You can leave.”
He wasn’t going anywhere. “Why doesn’t anyone hold you?”
She swayed, her weight shifting hip to hip, her eyes on her feet. “I don’t want them to. They only want to hold the money. I said you should go.”
“I want to hold you.” Had he not proven that?
Her head shot up and she pointed at him. “You’re like everyone else, you only want the money.”
He frowned at her. “I couldn’t give a fuck for your money.” His voice was two octaves too threatening. He backed it off. “I’ll make my own.”
She didn’t shift. “Big dreamer.”
He should’ve known she was hard to intimidate and he’d sound like an idiot. He reached for her, but she stepped away.
“Don’t hit me.”
Her words did. He dropped his arms and stepped back. “I...”
“Play nice.”
Was this some kind of kink code? Not his scene. If that’s what she wanted, he was out of here.
“You can do anything, but don’t hit me.”
He watched her eyes. She could negotiate her way out of bad weather, was this a game? She blinked, her guard open, her jaw clenched and chin dropped. This was real.
“Fuck, Jacinta, who hit you?”
“No one.”
“Someone.”
“Someone. Not now. A long time.”
He sat. Gave her space. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
“I trust you.”
He looked up at her. A fierceness in her eyes. He’d never knowingly hurt a woman in his life and he wasn’t going to start now.
“Hold me.”
How could he not. “Yeah.”
“Kiss me.”
He didn’t hate the instructions.
“Stay till morning.”
He never did that, but okay, one time, how bad could it be?
She turned her back, watched him over her shoulder with one wary eye. He stood again, two strides his hands were on her. The jazz was still there, in his head, in his hands as he unzipped her, as he peeled her out of the dress. Her skin was cool, and smooth like the petals of the tulips Buster loved so much. What would Buster make of her, this girl on fire for what they could do together?
She stepped out of the dress and took his hand; thigh-highs, midnight blue satin underwear, silky, satiny expensive. She led him through the kitchen, handed him a bottle of Perrier and two fluted glasses. Then he followed her down a corridor; doors, one she flung open: a bathroom, sunken tub, the world could look in the glass walls and watch you soak in it. Maybe it was treated glass. Maybe she didn’t care.