Truthfully, the reason why didn’t make a difference.
She invited him into her house, first because of her cat and then due to needing help. He was done with both. He should leave.
Only he didn’t want to. He liked her sitting close. He liked touching her even more.
He couldn’t deny the connection between them. Seeing her response—the change in her eyes, her breathing, her body—she couldn’t ignore it, either.
He had no idea when her girls would be home. But it would be a good idea if he was gone before they returned.
He just couldn’t make himself remove his hand from her hip or stop wanting her to slide into his lap. To touch her more thoroughly. To release her hair from the sloppy loop at the top of her head and bury his face in it. To taste her skin, steal her breath, make her shudder with an orgasm.
To hear her say his name while that happened.
Not Shawn. Not Shade. But his real name. He wanted to give her that. A part of him he didn’t give freely.
He was about to reveal a secret he hadn’t shared with anyone else. But he wasn’t sure how she would react to it. For fuck’s sake, she was a librarian who loved words.
He fucking hated words.
Words screwed him up.
Words were a part of his life he still couldn’t control. As much as he wanted to.
When he was young, one of his “daddies” tried to teach him. Eventually the man gave up in anger and frustration, calling Shade stupid and retarded.
Fucking retarded.
Slow and unable to learn.
Even though Shade wanted to learn. He tried.
He failed time and time again.
After that, no one else had ever been willing to help him. Not one person.
They wanted him for only one reason.
He didn’t need to be smart for that. He only needed to be compliant. Willing to do whatever was needed so he wouldn’t get that next fucking cut, that next burn, that next bruise, that next bloody lip. Those next damaging words.
Like being called a retard.
He cringed at the memory.
No. Not now.
He jumped when a soft, warm hand gently cupped his jaw. Chelle tilted his face back up toward hers. “Tell me.”
Fuck. He only wanted to hold her.
To lose himself in her.
To forget what happened to him. Even if only for a little while.
They each had their own lives and neither of their lives would mesh.
To ask her for a quick fuck would be insulting. She was better than that.
She was smart. He wasn’t.
She had a family. He only had a brotherhood of bikers.
They were so fucking different.
That didn’t stop him from wanting her.
She seemed to want him, too, but his next words might change that.
Maybe it was for the best.
“Can’t read.”
The fingers cupping his jaw twitched and the muscles under his hand on her hip tensed. He released her so she could escape, put space between them.
But she didn’t pull away. The only thing that moved were her lips, when she frowned and asked, “What?”
Was she going to make him repeat it?
“Why weren’t you taught to read? Your school... your parents had to have known, right?”
“No parents. Was an orphan.” That was the easiest way to describe his childhood.
“I’m sorry.” Her brow furrowed. “Were you a foster child?”
No, he’d been bought and sold. The men had paid for him. They weren’t paid to take care of him, like a foster family would be.
“Chelle,” he said softly. He wouldn’t get into this with her. Not here, not now.
Not with anyone. Even her.
He’d give her some secrets, but not all.
So far she hadn’t pulled away, but if he even scratched the surface of why he couldn’t read, she would be shocked and horrified and he didn’t want to see her looking at him like that.
Not ever.
He didn’t want her pitying him, either.
She removed her hand from his cheek and planted it solidly on his chest. “But—”
“Don’t wanna talk about it, Chelle.”
“But—”
He shifted sharply to get up, but the hand on his chest pushed him back into his seat.
“Hold on. Fine. You don’t want to talk about it. I get it. But, Shawn...”
He clenched his teeth at that name. It didn’t belong to him. Just like Chelle didn’t belong to him, either.
“Don’t you want to learn?”
Who the hell wouldn’t want to know how to read? Not being able to read signs, directions, or documents, emails or texts even, had handicapped him. He had adapted as best as he could, but it still put him behind the eight ball. It made him look like a fucking idiot when he couldn’t do something simple like read the color on a goddamn paint can lid. “Don’t think it’s possible.”
“What do you mean? It’s not impossible.”
“Chelle.”
“I can teach you,” she insisted.
What the fuck? “No.”
“Yes. I can teach you. My job involves my love for words. Sharing those words, expanding others’ horizons, is what I do for a living. I want to share those words with you.”