Page 45 of Destroyed With You

He frowned. “Since? Did you lose someone? Did a partner get killed?”

She met his eyes, and he thought he saw them glisten with tears. “Winston, dammit, I was talking about you.”

“Oh.” It was as if she had reached out and squeezed his heart. He stepped closer and took her hand in his. For a moment, he simply looked at her, a low burning need growing in him. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and gently kissed her fingertips.

“What are you doing?”

He flashed her half-smile. “I think you know what I’m doing.”

“We shouldn’t,” she said, but she didn’t pull her hand away.

“We didn’t know each other back then. You said we couldn’t possibly have been in love. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. It felt real to me. You felt real to me.”

“You didn’t know me.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But the attraction was real.” He slid his arms around her waist and moved closer, relishing the simple fact that she didn’t resist. “Or am I wrong?”

“No,” she said, her voice breathy. “You weren’t wrong but—”

He cut her off with a kiss. Long and deep and tasting of honey and her sweetness. He wanted to lose himself in that kiss. Wanted to go with her back into memory, back into their past. Wanted to use this one, sensational kiss to make all the hurt go away, and then strip her bare and slowly, sweetly, start all over again.

That’s what he wanted, and from the way she responded to his kiss, he thought she wanted it, too. But then her hands moved to his shoulders, and she gently pushed him away. He opened his eyes to see her lovely face looking at him, but now there was sadness in her tear-filled eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m more sorry that you can possibly imagine. But we shouldn’t. You know we shouldn’t.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

She offered him one sad smile. “Maybe not,” she said softly. “But I do.”

Chapter Fifteen

I dream of his hands.

Soft caresses on my cheek. Gentle strokes against my breasts. And the urgent claiming as his fingers thrust inside me, making my body clench around him.

I arch up, my body seeking more of him. But, of course, he’s not there, and I open my eyes to the sad reality that he hasn’t touched me at all, I’ve only been dreaming.

I sink back into the pillow, breathing hard, my body tingly and awake. I roll to the side, expecting to see him there, then realize that I’m still living half in Hades, and half in a dreamland. Of course he’s not beside me.

His side—to my right—is still made except for the missing pillow he took with him to the room’s small sofa. I’d offered to share the bed, but he’d turned me down. A long stare, a twitch in the muscle of his cheek, and then a shake of his head. “I’d better not,” he’d said, and I’d tried to ignore the lump of disappointment that had settled in my gut.

Tried, but failed, and as he’d settled on the couch with the pillow and a spare blanket, I’d gone to bed with him anyway—in my thoughts, at least—as I had for so many nights after Hades.

Back then, he’d been with me every night. Telling me in dreams that he forgave me. That he understood what I’d done and why I’d done it.

We’d make love through the night, and then he’d leave by morning, abandoning me to the life I’d made, alone.

Those dreams—fantasies—had been my anchor in that first year. His touch, albeit imaginary, was what had gotten me through.

But now here I am with the real man. A man who pushed every single one of my sensual buttons the first time I glimpsed him, and that doesn’t seem to have stopped even after all this time.

I’d shut him down earlier because I know sleeping with him would be a bad idea. We can’t get back what we had because there’s nothing real to grab onto. Nothing but lies to anchor us.

But now, as I close my eyes and slide my hand between my legs, I ask myself if it matters.

It does. Of course it does.

But for tonight, maybe I don’t care about the past or the future. Maybe I just want the now.