Page 18 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

“You don’t even know me” comes out softly.

“That’s what tonight is for.” He leans closer, his breath feathering against my cheek as he whispers, “Learning.”

The word vibrates through me. I’m so aware of his nearness, my insides tighten with anticipation. “And what have you figured out so far?”

“That you’re a secret sharer with more sweetness than any woman should be allowed to possess.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and trails his fingers down my cheek.

My pulse trips, and the voice in my head chants, Kiss me. Just kiss me.

His eyes flame, as if he heard it, too, and he says, “You’ve given me a glimpse, but you’re holding back, guarding the parts that hurt most.”

My breath catches. How can he see that in only one night? It feels like he’s stripping me bare, peeling away the defenses I’ve spent years building.

“Your heart speaks louder than your head,” he says, as if it’s a fact, his thumb grazing my jaw, slow and deliberate. “And you don’t know how you feel about that.”

His accuracy has me lowering my eyes, heat flooding my cheeks, wishing I could hide but unable to pull away.

“You have a lot of love to give,” he continues, and cups my cheek, tilting my face up enough to catch my eyes again. “But you haven’t found someone worthy of receiving it.”

My throat works around a lump I can’t swallow. I want to believe him. I want to believe he sees me. Not my disguise, not the lie I’m hiding, just me. The woman who has wanted him from afar for so long.

He brushes his scruff along my cheek, sending sparks darting through me, and rasps, “You don’t like that I see that in you.” He pulls back just enough for me to see his eyes, which are dark with desire and a surety that electrifies me. “But, my sweet, strong girl, you like when I get under your skin.”

A laugh slips out, too breathless to be a denial.

“Thought so,” he whispers.

His mouth comes coaxingly down over mine, a delicious mix of champagne, spice, and Seth. I lean in, and his hand slides beneath my hair to the nape of my neck, fingers hot on my skin, possessive in a way that makes my pulse stutter. His other arm locks around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard chest as he deepens the kiss with unwavering control. His tongue sweeps through my mouth excruciatingly slowly and mind-numbingly thoroughly, tasting, testing, then claiming every blessed piece of it.

A desperate moan slips out, and a rough, hungry sound rumbles up his chest, into our kiss. The feel of it wrecks me. I fist my hands in his shirt, dragging him closer, and his answering growl only feeds our fire. His hand tightens in my hair, angling my mouth beneath his, kissing me deeper, harder, more demandingly, like he can’t get enough. Heat and want crash through me with every stroke of his tongue. When his palm slides up my bare back, my body bows into him, breath catching, blood pounding, obliterating everything else but him.

By the time our lips part, I’m dizzy with desire, lost in how easy and right it feels to give myself over to him, and the terrifying truth that I don’t want to stop kissing him.

Apparently he doesn’t either, because he growls, “Christ, El,” and comes back for more, undoing me all over again with a string of slow, drugging kisses.

The shrill ring of my phone slices through the haze. I freeze, and Seth groans low in his throat. “Ignore it,” he says against my mouth.

“I can’t,” I whisper, though every cell in my body begs me to. “It might be my dad.”

“Of course. Sorry.” He pulls back.

I search the sand for my purse and see him pulling the strap over his head. I forgot he had it. He hands it to me, and I quickly take out my phone, seeing Dad on the screen. Worry pushes through the fog of desire, and I answer it. “Hey, Dad. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find the spare extension cord.” He sounds irritated. “The one we used for the Christmas lights. I need it for the fan in the garage. I swear I put it with the rest of the tools, but I’ve torn this place apart and I can’t find it.”

Relief floods me. “You left it in the basement last week when you were fixing the hot water heater,” I say gently. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

I doubt that. “Please be careful.”

“Always am. Thanks, kiddo. How’s your trip? You relaxing?”

“Actually, yes. I’m sitting on the beach at a bonfire right now.”

“Well, I guess miracles do happen. Attagirl.”

I smile, but I don’t think he’d say that if he knew I was making out with a client. The thought makes my stomach twist. “Love you, Dad.”