I don’t want to.
He pulls back just enough to search my face. Surely he sees my bottom lip trapped between my teeth because I must resist yielding to the warm comfort of him.
“I want to make it better, Ave,” he whispers, the cool mint of his breath breezing over my lips. “I just want to . . .”
He scans my face, waiting for some sign from me that it’s okay. That the desire to kiss me so clearly telegraphed in his eyes is okay. I can’t find words to articulate that in this maelstrom of grief and desire and confusion, the only thing clear, the only thing that makes any sense right now, is for him to kiss me. So I don’t say a word. I just lean forward until our lips meet.
6
Decker
Soft and fresh like petals.
I’m a jock. Not a dumb one, but a jock nonetheless. I don’t describe a woman’s lips as soft and fresh or compare a kiss to flowers. Besides the few years I was married to Tara, if it opened its legs and said yes or please, I fucked it. I always rushed it. A man’s got needs, but I got in and I got out. This woman, this kiss, I have to savor. I’d be a fool not to. It’s a first kiss. I understand the difference now between the first time you kiss someone, and a first kiss. This is a discovery of tongues and lips and heat. An introduction of our souls, if that doesn’t sound too pussy-ish. It’s how I feel, though. Like as our lips brush back and forth, as our tongues tangle, as I taste her, mouthful by delicious mouthful, I’m learning her secrets. I’m telling her mine. My hand slides from the door to flatten into the warmth of her back through the silk blouse, bringing her incrementally closer. The air shifts and takes the shape of lust; assumes the form of want. The sound of her moaning, the slight lift and fall of her breasts against my chest, testifies that she feels it, too.
The elevator dings, and our bodies go still even as we keep exchanging breaths and heartbeats through our clothes; even though my mouth is still poised above hers. I have her against the door, and every curve of her body is impressing itself on me, making sure I’ll never forget how right we fit together. I look over my shoulder toward the elevator. The doors open, but no one gets off. That interruption was enough to bring her back to her senses, though. God knows I can’t find mine.
“Um . . . you should go,” she whispers, a muscle rippling along the smooth line of her jaw.
I bend to breathe over her mouth, so she can taste our kisses lingering on my lips. “Or you could invite me in.”
Her scent and the warmth of her body take my senses hostage. I smell her and want to kiss her again so badly it stings my taste buds. Her eyes already regret the last few moments I thought were so perfect. I can’t calm my emotions or my body that quickly.
“You don’t want to come in, Deck.”
“I assure you I do,” I tell her.
A short laugh, deceptively light, breezes past her lips. She glances down to the floor and shakes her head.
“I’d make the worst one-night stand ever,” she says.
“One-night stand?” I take her chin in hand and lift, forcing her to look at me. “I’ve waited a long time for this path to be clear. No conflict of interest. No other people standing in our way. I don’t know exactly what I want, Avery, but it’s damn sure more than one night.”
If anything, my assurance that it’s more than just physical, more than just a night to me, lights panic in her eyes.
“Oh, that’s worse.” She frowns even as she sends a sad smile up at me. “I’m not anywhere near ready for something like that, Deck.”
She’s not a tall woman, though the strength of her personality makes you forget that. I’ve easily got a foot or more and a hundred pounds on her. She tucks a shiny chunk of dark hair behind her shoulder, exposing the intricate whorl of her ear, the fine angle of her jaw. She acts tough. Hell, she is tough, but her fiancé died only a year ago. That would leave anyone kind of fragile. Of course, she’s not ready. Up this close, invading her space, past the outer wall, I see the vulnerability; the desolation and pain. It stabs me in the chest.
“I get that,” I say, my voice rough. “I’m so sorry about him, Ave. About your fiancé.”
She nods, the tumult churning inside evident on her face. The need to comfort her has my hand up, palming her cheek and my other hand at her waist, pulling her into me. After a hesitation, she surrenders to it. Her forehead drops to my chest, and a ragged breath shudders through her slim body. The air thickens with lingering grief. She doesn’t cry, but the dip of her shoulders, the tension of her body, broadcasts how difficult this still is. My hand traces a soothing path from between her shoulders to the small of her back, and I don’t say anything, but leave her to take any comfort she can from the human contact. After a few moments, she shifts.
/> “Thanks, Deck,” she says softly, pulling back. My hand tightens at her waist, anchoring her to me, despite the gap between our bodies. She feels so good, I’m not ready to relinquish her.
“I need to go.” She stares at the button on my shirt instead of at me.
I’m about to refuse; to press the issue of the connection I know she feels, too, but there is just enough shadow in her dark eyes; trace amounts of the grief that brought us into each other’s arms in the first place, to change my mind. My hand drops, and she turns to unlock her apartment door.
“I’ll see you on set Monday.” Her eyes meet mine cautiously like she thinks I might grab her.
That could happen.
“Sure.” I step back. “Should be a great show.”
Once she’s safely inside, I board the elevator. She’s right. Tonight wasn’t the night. Based on what I learned about her fiancé, I can respect that. But after tasting her, not just her sweetness, but her tears, I know this is just clemency. She wants time. I can give her space, but I’m not giving up.
7