Why put myself through that torture again? One last night is all I want. Then we can go our separate ways.
No matter how much it hurts.
Traffic again is awful, maybe even worse since everyone’s off work and it’s a Friday. The cabbie hits the brakes hard and smacks his horn repeatedly, cursing at the car in front of him when it comes to an abrupt stop. Caden’s arm falls to my shoulders with the jolt and I bump against him, reaching out to rest my hand on his hard, warm thigh to brace myself.
“Sorry,” I mutter, about to remove my hand when he places his free hand on top of mine, keeping it in place.
“I don’t mind,” he murmurs, his voice so deep it feels like he’s touching my heart, my soul. “Keep your hand there.”
Slowly I look up at him, his dark eyes filled with so much emotion, his hair falling across his forehead. He looks sweet. Lost. Nervous. Hungry.
I feel the same way.
His other hand streaks across my shoulder before lifting to toy with my hair and I scoot closer, resting my head against his chest, my hand gripping his thigh, never wanting to let him go. We sit like that for long, quiet minutes and I try to match my heartbeat to his, my breaths so that I’m inhaling and exhaling to his steady rhythm. Doing so helps me feel connected to him, like I’m a part of him. And when he leans into me, his mouth at my temple, his fingers playing with the neckline of my dress, I close my eyes.
And let myself fall under the spell he’s so skilled at creating.
His fingers dip beneath the fabric of my dress, skimming along my collarbone. Darts of molten-hot pleasure shoot through me, and my breath grows shallow, my head dizzy. I swallow hard and lift my head to look up at him, only to find him already staring down at me. The hunger in his gaze is amplified and his lips part, as if he wants to say something.
But he remains silent, which is probably best. Words aren’t necessary any longer. Empty promises would remain just that … empty. Tonight is about connecting one last time before saying goodbye. For good.
My heart seizes at the thought, so I push it away.
Dipping his head, his mouth brushes mine and I breathe into him, the relief that floods me undeniable. I took for granted how delicious his kisses are, his taste, his tongue, the hum that sounds from deep in his chest when my tongue touches his. His fingers grip my shoulder; his hand clamps down over mine, which still rests on his thigh. But this is as far as I’ll take it. I don’t want to get out of control.
I’m done doing that. Being out of control only hurts.
So when I break the kiss first and pull away from him slightly, he doesn’t protest. He doesn’t try to keep me close, either. We resume our position from only moments before, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest. I can feel the rapid beating of his heart beneath my ear and it makes me smile.
He’s just as affected as I am. I find that reassuring.
It also makes me sad.
I slip the key card into the slot and the light blinks green. Pushing open the door, I enter the room, Caden right behind me. He slams the door and turns the lock, the click loud in the otherwise quiet of the room, and I go to the dresser, setting down my purse before I step out of my shoes. I wriggle my toes, sighing with relief, and I hear Caden’s chuckle.
A chuckle I’ve heard many, many times these last couple weeks. But somehow, this one is different. Deeper. Darker. I glance up to find him watching me, his gaze locked on my feet, his mouth curved in a faint smile.
“Hurting?”
Nodding, I hold my foot out and wiggle my toes again for his benefit. “I go a few weeks hardly wearing heels and I guess my feet have to get used to them again.”
“Torture devices,” he murmurs as he points at the bed. “Sit down.”
I frown. “Torture devices? Men never protest when they see a woman in heels.”
“Oh, they’re definitely sexy. I’m not denying that. But you must admit they torture your feet.” He nods toward the bed. “Sit down, Rose.”
“My grandma told me from a very young age that beauty is pain.” I go to the edge of the bed and sit, surprised when he kneels in front of me, holding out his hand.
“Give me your foot.”
I do as he commands, a gasp escaping me when he holds my foot in his hands and begins to rub. Good lord, that feels good. He presses hard, his fingers moving in circles across my heel, then the center of my foot. He pulls on my toes, each of them giving a little pop, and I’m surprised at how good that feels. He keeps massaging, his thumbs working my aching muscles, and I close my eyes, a low moan escaping me.
“Is this okay?” he asks hoarsely.
I nod, unable to speak. His thumb moves slowly over the top of my foot, his gaze dark, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and heat pools low in my belly.
“Want me to stop?” His voice deepens, sounding like pure sex. I had no idea a foot massage could be so sensual. “Rose?” he asks when I don’t say anything.
My eyes pop open and I furiously shake my head, making him smile. He carefully sets down my foot and grabs the other one, giving it the same luxurious treatment for long, delicious minutes until I feel like I could melt. His hands start to wander. Fingers circling my ankles, tickling the backs of my calves, behind my knees, making me giggle.
My skin grows warm when I feel his intent shift. The air becomes thicker, heavier. His touch bolder as his breathing deepens. Mine catches in my throat and my eyes are narrowed into slits as I watch him slowly work his way up my leg. Until his hand disappears beneath my skirt and is touching my thighs. I widen them for him shamelessly, wanting him to slip those magical fingers beneath my panties so he can find out just how wet I am for him.