“I can’t get enough of you—”
They both froze, having said the same words at the same time.
He brushed her hair lovingly over her ear and went to punctuate that sentiment with a kiss to her cheek when she turned her face and met his lips with her own. Their lips meshed. Gentle. Belying the whirlwind that had consumed them moments ago. She’d been about to sacrifice a contract because of him. It would have been a cold day in hell before Isabella would have done something so selfless. He’d never had anyone sacrifice for him except his mother. He’d always been the one to sacrifice.
They cleaned up, but he left his belt hanging open as he drew her into his arms in nothing but her bra and unbuttoned jeans. He pivoted and dropped his rear to her bumper, drawing her onto his lap and engulfing her with muscle as he rested his chin to her shoulder from behind. Unable to stop kissing, he let her wisps of hair catch on his five-o’clock shadow and brushed his nose over her skin like a painter making swirls.
He just wanted to hold her and relished her hands curling up around his forearms. There was something so calming about holding a woman, the contours of their bodies fitting so well, the comforting warmth, and he let himself relish it now. He dared for the first time in years to admit to himself that he’d missed this contact and intimate touch, with someone he was returning to over and over again. Sex was good. But this? Cuddling was a prize a lot of guys didn’t appreciate. This cuddling felt like the sweet aftertaste of lovemaking.
He’d have to be careful around his boys, because a girlfriend was going to shock them at first. He was setting an example. Showing his sons how to date, how to treat women. Was she anxious to meet his kids? What had she meant when she’d said that she’d never have kids of her own? Now that his angst was worked out of his system, all her frustrated words came rolling back like an incoming tide.
She’d never answered his question: if floating wherever the wind took her made her happy. For some reason, she didn’t feel rooted. Had she asked to stay longer, because secretly, deep down, she needed roots she didn’t have? Was he reading too much into this as his heartbeat finally managed to return to a steady, normal thudding? Why wasn’t she close to her family? Why did she think she’d never have kids? Or…his hands spanned her stomach now, fingers tracing over the ragged scar tissue and the healed incisions…could she not have kids? The possibility bounced around his head for the first time.
Would he ever get her to open up, like he’d opened his wounds to her? If it was something she was hiding, something she was avoiding talking about, then it meant it made her self-conscious.
“Let me take my new girl on an actual date tomorrow night,” he murmured in her ear.
His eyes were weary from all his computer work. He wouldn’t mind a proper date instead of a whim.
“What did you have in mind?” Her fingers brushed up and down his forearms.
He thought for a moment, and shrugged. She was the one who’d dragged him out each night. “Don’t know. The bar we met at’s got two-stepping on Friday nights.”
“Dancing?” She turned over her shoulder and leveled a disbelieving look at him. “So you do dance, you liar. You know how to two-step?”
“Yes. My mother made all us boys take lessons. My bros whined like little bitches, but I liked it. Came in handy in high school when I wanted to score a date.” He grinned. “Then the joke was on them.”
She laughed. “You like dancing? I had to pull teeth that night just to make you look at me.”
He grinned. “You kinda did. But I needed to loosen up. Do you?”
She nodded. “Love dancing, but never two-stepped.”
“They didn’t teach you that folksy stuff at Ridgeport Prep?” His eyes watched her lips, and he couldn’t resist smirking.
“Nope. They taught ballet. Even taught pointe which my sister was incredible at.”
Sister? This was the first mention of her family. And hot damn it felt like he’d finally scored a point. Those childhood pictures on Facebook must be her sister. Heart with a sister seemed sweet. Did she have brothers, too? He’d always wondered if he and his brothers would have been different if they’d had a sister thrown into the mix, but it seemed Harold Dixon was incapable of breeding daughters, like he’d been, too. And on his dad’s side, it had only been uncles. Growing up, the Dixons had joked self-deprecatingly that if they wanted women in the family, they’d have to marry them because they certainly couldn’t sow them.
“What kinda Texan are you?” he admonished with a playful kiss.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t even have a cowboy hat,” she gasped, admitting to the sin.
He tsked and pinched her side, relishing the way she squirmed and giggled and elbowed his ribs.
He swiped up his hat and plopped it on her head, shrugging. “We’ll remedy both.”
“Teach me to two-step?”
“And get you a hat, so you stop stealin’ mine.”
“Are you being spontaneous, Mr. Rules?” she teased, dusting kisses to his forearm.
“Lemme check my spreadsheet and get back to you,” he teased back, earning that musical laugh of hers that danced on his eardrums and made him wish for forever. “Might be able to pencil you in between seven and eight thirty. I don’t know.” He shook his head as if clearing fog from his head. “Obviously my brain’s short-circuiting, so you may as well take advantage of it. T.R.’s band’s got another gig there.”
“Oooh, which means Charlie will be there.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why?”