Bad Cruz

And I was taking it to the grave with me.

I ended up finding Tennessee on one of the decks, leaning against the pulpit, watching the black waves crash against the massive vessel. Her hair had submitted to the wind, dancing around her face in ashy, frosty tendrils.

She hugged herself with her back to me.

It physically hurt to see her like this. So vulnerable and out of place.

Not wanting to startle her, I spoke before I advanced toward her.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t turn around to look at me. Instead, her head shook a little, the gesture so light I couldn’t even tell if it was intentional.

“What for?”

“Being an idiot.”

“Consider yourself forgiven. Most men are.”

“That’s no excuse.”

I came to stand beside her and saw that her face was full of tears. Black mascara crawled across her cheeks like spiderwebs, and her nose was red, swollen, and puffy.

She looked less than gorgeous, and my chest felt full and warm. She looked…real. Without all the plastic smiles and dramatic eyeliner.

“I know today has been challenging for you, and—”

“Don’t,” she cut me off.

“Don’t what?”

“Do the whole nice guy shtick. I can’t handle it right now.”

I pursed my lips. She’d had a disastrous day, with a slime ball who’d put his hand on her, a woman who accused her of being a thief—and a whore—Rob, who for reasons undisclosed, took it upon himself to bypass her and speak to their son for the first time ever, and then the cherry on the shit cake was my beating her—then telling her she must be used to losing.

Real class move, Costello.

“For the record, I don’t think you’re a loser,” I said somberly.

“Why?” She spun her head my way, the tears drying on her face caking her distorted makeup into place. “You were right. Hit the nail right on the head. I am a loser. In fact, I can’t even recall the last time I won something. Anything. I’m an embarrassment to my family and will bring shame on my son once he grows up and realizes just how much of a cluster pluck I am. I don’t have a real job, any prospects, or anything to look forward to. And you’re also right that I’m bitter about it. I’m an idiot, a failure, and I—”

I kissed the living hell out of her.

Pulled her into my embrace, circled my arms around her, shielding her from the world, from the wind, from herself, and did what I should have done all those years ago—I put my lips on hers, hoping to hell she wasn’t going to reject me.

Her lips were cold, her nose was freezing, but I didn’t care, because she didn’t push me away. She smelled of her coconut-and-marshmallow cocktail and that high school girl I used to follow with my gaze under my ball cap when no one was watching.

I wanted to open my mouth, dart my tongue out, taste more of her, all of her, but I was afraid she’d withdraw.

She was skittish and guarded all over, like a stray cat, her instincts frayed. She was ready to run any second when it came to men.

So instead of digging my fingers into the ass I’d dreamed about ever since I was sixteen, or pushing a knee between her thighs and making her ride me to Orgasmville, I concentrated on nibbling my way softly from her mouth to her neck, nuzzling my nose against her ear, giving the spot under her earlobe a quick lick, and then blowing air on it to make her shudder.

She seemed to like it, her fingers curling around my dress shirt as she swayed into me. There was something innocent—almost chaste—about the encounter, and it sent a rush of desire through my veins that made my body go haywire.

My cock was so hard I was pretty sure it could tear through my pants if I wasn’t careful. I moved from her neck and her ear to her cheek, the tip of her nose, and crown of her hair, peppering all of them with feather-light kisses that made me ache.

It was weird, I knew.