I can’t, so I do the only thing I can think to do—I reach my hand down to catch hers, to move it. I twine our fingers together so it doesn’t seem as much like a rejection and I smile against her mouth, giving her a soft kiss.
“You’re drunk,” I state.
“I’m not drunk, I’m tipsy,” she argues. “And I don’t care.”
“But I do. You can’t be drunk the first time we have sex.”
Shaking her head, she says, “No, you don’t understand. I need to be drunk.”
“If you need to be drunk to have sex with me, I don’t think you should have sex with me.”
I’m frustrating her. I wish I could stop, but I just respect her too goddamn much. “No, not you,” she says, lightly shoving my shoulder. “Don’t make me talk about this.”
“Sweetheart, I haven’t the faintest idea what the hell we’re talking about,” I tell her honestly.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex and when I did, it was frankly traumatic. I’m terrified to do it again. But I want to, with you. But I need the alcohol. It’s important. It makes me brave.”
It breaks my goddamn heart that she thinks she needs to be brave to have sex. Trailing the back of my hand down her jawline, I beg her, “Please tell me his name.”
She shakes her head, still refusing, even with all this alcohol in her veins. “He doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t want to think about that. I just want to think about you.” She leans in again, her perfect lips brushing mine, trying to entice me. God help me if this woman ever sets her mind to convincing me to do anything I shouldn’t—I’d torch everything in sight and salt the fucking earth if she used those sweet lips of hers to convince me.
“Fuck,” I murmur.
“Can we stay?” she asks.
“You think you can get away with that?”
Nodding, she says, “If he hasn’t noticed me missing by now, he shouldn’t notice at all. He’s usually at the gym or sleeping when I eat breakfast, so he’ll just think he missed me.”
I’m a solid 90 percent sure this is a bad idea, but since there’s just about nothing in the whole world I want more, I’m gonna do it anyway.
Before I can change my mind, I grab my wallet and pull out a few bills, tossing them on the table. Then I grab Francesca’s hand and lead her through the restaurant, back to the metal stairs with the flower petals sprinkled along the edge, and back up into the city. I hail us a cab and hustle inside, hoping common sense won’t catch up with me.
My heart’s beating in my throat like I’m the one who hasn’t had sex in years, but I’m terrified I’m about to fuck things up. Normally I don’t move slow like this—I’m an adult, for fuck’s sake—but given the unique difficulty of my relationship with Francesca, not to mention her extreme vulnerability due to the trauma of her only serious relationship, it also sort of worked for us. Of course I want to have sex with her, but I want her to be ready for it.
I don’t know if she ever will be, though. I don’t know how valid her argument back there was; I’ve never been traumatized by my only sexual experience, so I have no idea if more time with me would make her less afraid of it. Maybe the only way is to be gentle with her, to show her that sex isn’t something to fear.
I’m going to kill that sadistic motherfucker. I may not be able to physically kill him yet, but I want to kill his memory. I don’t want him to be a part of her last intimate memory. I don’t want her to ever think of him again. I want to dive into her heart, find every corner that motherfucker polluted, and blast him out of there. I want to replace every bad memory of that bastard with a good memory of me.
I want to heal all her hurts, and then I want to make sure no one ever gets a chance to hurt her again.
—
I don’t expect Francesca to make the first move, but she does.
We’re back at the hotel, safely locked inside away from the world, and now she’s backing me up toward the bed. Her hands are braced on my chest. I don’t think she knows what to do with me, but I’ll let her figure it out. My natural instinct is to take charge, but given what she said earlier, I try to hold back. Let her set the pace.
She takes a step back, looking me over. “Take your clothes off.”
Quirking an eyebrow in surprise, I murmur, “Yes, ma’am,” and start peeling off my clothing. She looks unsure now that she’s said it, but I strip down anyway.