More Than Need You (More Than Words 2)

She inches back on the sofa and crosses her arms over her chest, like she needs space between us. “If I do, you’ll only come at me harder.”

“But I’m right?”

No doubt she’ll think I’m a pushy bastard, but Britta needs comfort and I think she needs it badly. From me. I take her hand and rub my thumb over her knuckles.

She grips my hand in return as she squeeze

s her eyes shut, silently affirming everything I’ve been thinking. “Yes.”

We’re finally getting somewhere. I sit up straighter and bring her closer. I want to put her palm against my skin. Hell, I want to put my hands all over her body. I live in a constant state of arousal fantasizing about it. But she’s worth every moment of the agony.

“Thank you, angel. In order for you to figure out if you want me in your life, if what we have could work for you, we both have to be as honest as possible. I’ve been trying. I’ve been letting you in on everything I’m feeling and thinking—”

“I told Keeley today that you’re so forthcoming I almost don’t know who you are.” She sends me a teary smile. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m waiting for the old you to show up. In the past, I spent half my time wondering if I mattered to you. Or if I even crossed your mind. Now I know. It’s refreshing, on the one hand. Disarming on the other.”

“If you’ll let me, I’ll tell you every day that I’m thinking of you. That I want you. That I love you. I’ll never make you wonder again.”

“What about the rest of our problems? I mean…you just left me that morning. I didn’t even know what was going on so I could defend myself and tell you why you were misunderstanding the situation. You severed all ties before I could assure you that I knew nothing about Maxon’s deal with that secretive prince.”

I wince. “I know. But I’m getting better at trust.”

Britta shakes her head. “That’s not enough for me. We have a child now. Whatever anger you have? You have to think beyond it long enough to figure out what’s best for everyone. This can’t be about your temper and your pride anymore.”

“You’re right. Does it help if I make you a promise? If we ever seemingly reach the end of our relationship, I’ll talk to you. And you’ll talk to me. If we do that, I can’t imagine that we’ll ever call it quits again.” I edge closer to her. “Britta, I was young and cocky. Angry and stupid. Immature. You’ve met my parents. That was my example of marriage. I knew I loved you. I was afraid to say it because that would be giving you power over me.”

“But you had that power over me.”

I nod, conceding the point. “You have to understand… I’ve seen one partner punish the other with their ‘love.’ The thought of reliving that wasn’t something I could handle. But I’m telling you now because I know you’ll never abuse it. Because I’ve lived years without you, and it made me fucking miserable.”

She frowns like she doesn’t understand me at all. I’m not surprised. Her mother is a doll of a woman who loves her daughter with all her heart. She chose a man who ultimately didn’t stay with her because he went back to his ex-wife. But Eleanor knew her heartache was as much her lover’s fault as her own. She’s not resentful. Her maternal adoration shines in everything she does for Britta. My angel never saw two people tear each other up on a daily basis for the sport of it. She never gave her heart to anyone who crushed it simply for amusement.

“If you could promise you would never walk out on me again without a conversation—”

“Absolutely. Done. I will never, ever simply leave without a word. You won’t do that to me?”

Britta frowns. “Whether we’re together or not, you know that’s not my style.”

She’s right. It’s not. I’m a lucky bastard that Britta has never been the sort to try to make me jealous or angry or threaten me to get a reaction. Honest. Kind. Caring. Perfect. That’s her.

“Okay, so that’s one hurdle. I think…” She swallows. “We have to talk about all the other women.”

“When we were together, I never once cheated on you.”

“But you’ve hardly been a monk the last three years.”

I want to protest. She can’t hold against me what I did when we were apart. But she can’t help how she feels about everything I’ve done since we separated any more than I can help how I feel about her crappy fiancé.

“If you’ll say yes to me…” I dare to curl my fingers around her nape and make damn sure she’s looking into my eyes. “If you’ll marry me, I guarantee you’ll be the last woman I ever touch. And I’ll never give you a reason to want anyone else.”

Much less someone like Makaio Kale.

“I’m not ready to commit to that.”

I try not to gnash my teeth. It’s like we’re having a circular argument. I don’t know how to move her forward. I can’t go back.

“Angel…”

“But your point about our time together makes sense. At the end, we should be certain of our decision to either get back together or split up for good. What if…” She sighs, collecting her thoughts. “What if you had the right idea earlier? Instead of one night of trying to imagine what life would be like if we’d been married all this time, what if we live that way the rest of our time here together? Minus the sex, of course.”

Of course. That part doesn’t thrill me, but the rest? I want to throw a fucking party. “Hell yes!”

That’s a far better concession than I ever expected her to give me. It’s such a relief to know I won’t have to fight her for every conversation we share for roughly the next seven weeks.

The smile she gives me is halting at first, but it grows, reaches her eyes. It makes her come alive. It makes her look happy.

This is what I’ve been waiting for, fighting for, aching for.

Britta Stone is almost mine again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It’s no surprise that Britta isn’t ready to break up with the butthole yet, so I have to keep working around him. No, it’s not my first choice, but she’s given a lot tonight. I don’t know what magic words I used to persuade her to try the next forty-eight days my way, but I’ll say it again and again if it will keep moving us forward.

I’d rather kiss her, make love to her, cement our bond right now. But until she ditches the most uptight Hawaiian I’ve ever met, I have to respect her boundaries.

We wander to the family room. I mention ice cream. She dishes us both a couple of scoops into a cup. And we smile. Talk turns to “Keeley’s” wedding, and I press for details. My angel loves a good plan and she gets really excited.

“Do you think Keeley would be offended if I offered to take some of her tasks off her list?”

Because presumably she may never get to plan a wedding of her own. But this is genius because if she marries me, she will have unwittingly crafted at least a chunk of her own nuptials, which should thrill her to bits.

“I think she’d be both happy and relieved. You should do it.”

She slides the gleaming spoon against her tongue, and I nearly lose it. Her lips are glistening and rosy, pillowy and sensual—and inches from mine.

I have to look away before I toss her across the counter, pull off her yoga pants, and do something she’ll slap me for now or resent me for later.

“I will. Thanks.” She glances at the clock. “It’s still fairly early. If we’d been married for the last three years, maybe we would find a movie to watch to pass the rest of the evening?”

After the deep discussion we just had, I would insist on taking her to bed and making sure she feels loved, wanted, and secure. But…

I sigh. “Sure.”

We climb on the sofa, maybe two feet apart, and turn on a numbing police comedy. There are a couple of suspenseful parts and a high-speed chase, complete with automotive acrobatics that strain credulity. When the cop’s love interest is nearly killed for information, Britta edges closer and buries her head in my shoulder.

I smile. She’s got a soft heart. She’s never liked violence. And I’m not above using this moment to my advantage.

Wrapping my arm around her, I anchor my palm on her hip and slide her closer. “You okay?”

She’s still tense. “Can I look now?”

I stare at the screen. One bad guy has cuffed this girl to a surgical table and another just picked up a cordless screwdriver. “Not yet.”

“Why do they put this in movies? Can’t they

fade to black and tell me bad stuff might happen, then show me the outcome later?”

I laugh. “Guys like the aggressive, testosterone-driven scenes. Juices up the blood. Makes us feel manly. We imagine how