Kismet (Happy Endings 3) - Page 56
My heart thumps. This man and his generosity. “You can’t say that.”
“Why can’t I?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Because it makes me fall even harder for you.”
He holds me closer. “Then I’ll tell you more fabulous things about me.”
“Like where you donate them?”
He whispers low and husky in my ear, “A library.”
I shudder. Literally. A tremble rushes through my entire body. “Okay, I love that you do that. And now it makes perfect sense why you don’t have any books here. The fact that you donate them all is another incredibly hot thing on a long list of hot things that you do, Heath Graham.”
“What else is on that list? Hopefully, the way I fuck you, the way I kiss you, the way I lick and suck you.” He brings his lips to my ear, sweeps his tongue across my earlobe, finishing with a delicious nip.
I shiver, all hot and bothered. “Are you trying to get me turned on again?”
“Consider that my mission pretty much always,” he says.
I snuggle up against him. “Well, it’s working.” I turn my head and pat the edge of the couch where a purple throw blanket covers the cushions. “Is this for when you get cold at night while you’re reading?”
“Yes. And it’s for napping,” he says, his cheeks a touch pink.
I nudge his shoulder. “Why are you embarrassed to say you nap?”
“I don’t know. It seems so young. Or perhaps so old. But I do love a good catnap on a Sunday afternoon.”
I hum, getting lost in that delicious idea. “We should take a nap today,” I purr, seducing him into the plan.
“That would really make it a perfect day. Sex and love and you and a catnap.”
“Let’s make it a deliberate date to sleep. But not yet.” I pop up from the couch. “Can I see more of your place?” Then I pause as a worry pokes at me. Am I pushing? Is it too much to want a tour of his flat? “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” I flap a hand at his abode. “It’s your life, and I get that it may be personal.”
His expression softens. “Are you asking if I lived here with Violet?”
I glance away, heat flushing my neck, and nod. I didn’t think about that at all when I walked in here an hour ago. I was just so focused on getting him naked, getting me naked, but now, it’s on my mind.
“Yes. I did. I’ve lived here for ten years,” he says, and I do the math easily.
That’s the last four years plus half of their marriage.
Standing, he runs his fingers along my hair, brushing it away from my cheek, watching my face with concern and curiosity. “But are you asking me if it’s weird for me to have you here, or are you telling me you feel uncomfortable being here? Because if you do, just say the word and we can leave. We can go to your flat. Or if you just want to leave . . .”
His voice pitches up with a tension I don’t usually hear in it—like it pains him, the thought of me leaving. It definitely pains me.
And of course, he’d be nervous about me being here in his space. I’m the first person he’s been with in four years.
My heart screams in protest at the prospect of leaving. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
I glance around. His flat doesn’t feel like a mausoleum. It feels like his. On the coffee table sits a program from last night’s production of And So It Begins, his brother’s play that we saw together. Next to it is a new book we picked out for our book club. Near the corner is his camera, the one he uses when he takes photos of London—photos with me and sometimes photos with me and him in them together.
It’s all very Heath.
“I’m sure,” I say.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he presses, “But this is my home. It’s where I live. It’s where I went after the night I met you. I came through that door”—he points to the entrance—“still thinking about you, how you felt naked in my arms.” He pulls me closer onto the couch. “This couch is where I was the next night when I rang to ask you to dinner.” He waves to the kitchen. Teacups line the counter. A yellow kettle sits next to the stove. “That is where I was when I called you after your first day at work, hunting for an excuse to talk to you.” He cups my face then runs his fingers through my hair. “You’re everywhere . . .” He taps his chest. “Because you are in here.”
I feel like a fool. Emotions rise, clogging my throat. I’m not sure I’ll have room inside for all these things I feel for him. I shift around so I can loop my hands around his neck, play with the ends of his hair. “Will you show me the pictures on your mantel?”
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