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It’s clear she’s done this before. Her hold is high and confident. Her feet are planted correctly. And when she perfectly executes a Peter Pan into a back hook spin, I have to adjust myself.
How the fuck has she been calling herself shy when this goddess has been inside her the whole time? What other secrets is she hiding from me?
And how quickly can I get her to break so I can strip her down and discover them?
When Bee returns, she’s covered in a sheen of sweat that’s doing nothing to kill the need to get my mouth on her. She’s also doing everything she can to not look at me, which is a hard no.
“Let me guess. You interviewed a dancer for a few months.”
“Actually, no. I’ve always been impressed with dancers, and I took an eight-week class to learn a few moves. Thought it would come in handy.”
I wait until she’s seated before dragging my chair closer and tilting her chin up. The ring of gold around her eyes is alight. “You’re a constant surprise.”
Her lips part on a breath, and I run my thumb along the plush pink. I want in. I don’t care what part of me she wants to take, but I need it. She’d look so good wrapped around me.
I know she’s waiting for me to make the first move, and fuck if I want to. But I made the rule for a reason, and it’s going to be her if it kills me, which it just might. I need to know she isn’t going to regret this in the morning.
I won’t be a mistake she makes.
So I put some much-needed space between us and try to cool off with the remnants of my virgin sunrise. Little hard on the grenadine, but it’s a good distraction. Bee’s tapping her foot midair, and it’s impossible not to follow the line of her skin up to her plush thigh.
I can still feel the soft give of them under my palms.
Fuck.
It’s a shame I don’t drink, because I sure as hell could use one.
“You should get up there,” Bee says.
“Who says I still have it?”
“There’s only one way to know,” she says.
I take a few slow breaths to stop myself from taking her over this table, witnesses be damned.
“I was a different man back then. A lot has changed.”
She toys with her straw, the paper wilting under her ministrations. I can relate. “When did you decide to quit drinking? That’s not from the quiz. That’s just for me.”
Wow, if this is how Bee questions her friends, her interviews must be something spectacular. Guess that’s what I get for telling her honesty shouldn’t be shied away from.
Immediately, all my inappropriate thoughts are flushed out. Talking about my dad works better than a cold shower.
I heave a sigh. “How much has Aiden told you about my parents?”
“Nothing, but you’ve said enough over the years that I know you aren’t close to your dad.”
It’s kind of her to put it so mildly, considering what I can remember of the times I’ve mentioned him in the past. “I’m not. My parents met, married, and had me at a really young age. That was the norm in those days, but they also had a habit of being on again, off again, which didn’t really bode well for them. It definitely didn’t help that my dad drank a lot and had the same approach to emotions as Bruce Banner.”
“Always angry,” she fills in.
I hum. “It never got physical, but it didn’t need to. The screaming was enough, and even when he was quiet, it was like walking through an active minefield. Every little thing set him off. Especially messes. God forbid you use a glass or make a noise at the wrong time. And he might not have hit either of us, but he certainly didn’t mind taking it out on anything we owned.”
“Sebastian, I’m so sorry.”
I’ve heard those words before. I haven’t told my story to many, but it’s the go-to reaction when I do share. It’s always difficult to hear, because the person apologizing isn’t the one who deserves to, the root of it all. No, they’re apologizing for the results. The sadness. The trauma.
They’re saying sorry because what else is there to say?
