Page 33 of View With Your Heart

“I don’t want to lose touch again. I’ve been here almost a week, and I feel like I’m running out of time. I’m here another week, and I want to see you. I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He holds up two fingers like Scout’s honor.

“Why?” I stare at him. Why now? “I’m not that girl who stayed in a hotel room with you for a weekend.”

His eyes widen. “I’m not suggesting you are. Things have changed.”

“Yes, they have,” I state harshly again, but some things stay the same, and my attraction to him, despite our heating words, is rising in temperature. I want to crawl on his lap and kiss him silly, debunking my claim of a man in my life.

“You still haven’t told me anything about your husband.”

“What is there to tell? He was a good man, and he died.” The words tumble out in a rush and sound even sharper than my previous snap at him. Quickly, I press off the floor and stand. “I’m going to check on your clothes.”

Needing space from him and the sexual energy rippling over my body, I exit the room for the laundry closet. His jeans are still damp near the bottom, but the shirt is dry. He probably doesn’t even wash them but has then professionally laundered and starched. Tumbling it in the dryer has made it a wrinkled mess, but it will have to do.

When I return to my room, Gavin is standing but propped against the edge of my bed. His ankles cross again, and his hands are clasped together in his lap. His head is lowered, but he looks up when I enter.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” His dark eyes soften, and I see the Gavin of years ago. The one who told me he loved me when I was only sixteen years old. The same one who asked me to make love to him in a hotel room.

“I’m sorry, too.” I hold out his clothes, and he accepts them but places them over the towel on his thighs. “It’s just a shock to see you again.”

I have all these feelings inside, and I don’t know what to do with them. Most of all, I have something to tell him.

Gavin reaches for my hand, rubbing his thumb over my fingers, watching as he strokes my knuckles.

“I shouldn’t have run away like I did last night. That was adolescent. It was only a kiss, right?” Dismissing the kiss lessens the sting of his apology for it and my awkward response to it.

He tugs me toward him, and I stumble a bit. My feet knock into his crossed ankles, and I’m forced to straddle his legs to catch myself from falling over.

“If it was only a kiss, maybe we should do it again,” he teases, his voice lowering as his gaze drifts to my mouth.

“What happened to being good?” I tease.

“If he doesn’t kiss you, don’t you miss it?”

He has no idea how much I miss kissing someone. How much I miss hands on my body, touching me with desire. How much I miss the feel of someone entering me, connecting with me.

Not just anyone but him.

My eyes focus on his lips as well. When I don’t respond to his question, he slowly licks the bottom one, turning up the temptation to give into him. This has bad idea written all over it, and he’s making it so difficult to resist him. His hand flips, so his fingers entwine with mine.

He yanks me forward a little more, and I widen my stance over his legs, using the strength in my thighs to prevent me from collapsing into his chest.

“One more, Candy. Then I’ll stop.” I’ve heard these words so many times from him. We’d pull off to the side of the road for one more kiss. He came to see me the morning he left for California, for one more kiss before he said goodbye. He asked me to make love to him in the wee hours of the morning that weekend, for one more time before time was up.

“Gavin,” I groan, but I don’t finish his name before his mouth is on mine, sweet but demanding. His hand cups the side of my face, tilting my head, offering him a better angle to take my lips with his. He’s kissing me with all the tenderness I desire and the eagerness with which I want to give in. Our mouths move together, finding the taste familiar, finding the connection I’ve ached for, and too soon, I pull back, needing to separate before I push him back and crawl over him, removing his towel and making him do things to me which would result in something amazing and not good at the same time.

“You should get dressed. I’ll step into the living room.” My voice isn’t more than a whisper while my gaze falls to his lips once more, still wet from our kiss. I bite mine, feeling the pressure of his mouth still against me. My legs are spread over his thighs, and the heat of him just below me increases the pulse at my core. I need to move, but my legs are frozen in place. My chest heaves, causing my nipples to rub against the soft tee of my sleep shirt, increasing the ache in the swell of my breasts.

Everything in me wants to lunge at him, tackle him to the bed and straddle him, but I fight the urge, reminding myself who he is, who he’s been in my life. He’s temporary, and I’m not looking for a quick fix.

Take 12

Scene: The Living Room

[Gavin]

Leaving her bedroom takes all my strength. I wanted nothing more than to tug her on top of me, remove the towel and enter her, reminding her of us, reminding her how it feels to be wanted by a man.

Who the hell dates her and doesn’t fucking kiss her?