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If she’d believed she lacked a sensitivity gene before, this proved it. In spades.
But he hadn’t shoved her away. He’d even responded at first. Not only that but he’d given her an unexpected, wonderful, incredible orgasm that had seemed to rock him every bit as it had her. Thank God he hadn’t been able to hear the endless singsong in her head while he’d had his hand and his mouth on—and in—her body.
Sam’s touching me. Sam’s using his fingers inside me, Sam’s mouth is on my breast. Now his lips are on my nipple and it feels fan-flipping-tastic.
Then just Sam. Sam. Sam.
It wasn’t the most amazing climax she’d ever had, probably not even close, but it had affected her more than any other. He’d touched something inside her with every stroke of his fingers. And those dark eyes directed on hers as if he was soaking up her reaction…that was the most amazing experience ever. One she knew she would never forget.
For her sex had always been about a borrowed connection. Wires patched together to make a unit long enough to transmit a message. That shared goal, those stolen moments when nothing else mattered but pleasure. When they ended, so did the link. The electricity faded.
That wouldn’t be the case here. She would bet on it. She’d hear his laughter, those heady snatches of it, and treasure his rare smiles, even the heaviness in his eyes. His grief was as beautiful as it was disturbing and she felt honored to have witnessed any part of it. Those billboards had given her a window into a life, two lives, but now she was discovering the glass was muddy. The pinhole view she’d been given hadn’t been real.
They were just two human beings. Not the ideal couple. Not romantically tragic. The way she’d painted them was as much a fantasy as any movie.
So why did she want him even more now that she knew he wasn’t perfect? That he hadn’t lived some fairy tale romance, that every word he penned didn’t drip from his quill like liquid gold?
She forced out a breath and picked up the letter again. This time she would get through it. All the way. Then she would move on to the next.
Telling you would’ve been the fair thing to do. You built your whole world around getting pregnant again. Meanwhile I partied. And I drank. You knew about Melissa, how we flirted. Well, one night the flirting went too far. I kissed her. Just once. I’d been drinking, and it was a mistake. I knew you were home waiting for me and all the pressure to be the man I wasn’t ready to be hit like an avalanche. How could I be a father when I hadn’t even really figured out how to be me yet? Who was I to try to teach anyone else how to be a good person when I was out kissing another woman while my pregnant wife sat home knitting booties?
But I didn’t know you were pregnant that night. I didn’t know about the booties. It was only after you’d died that I found the stash in the chest by the foot of our bed.
You were right to kick me out. But I was right to not want you to hurt like that again. I couldn’t help wanting to protect you. Now you’re gone.
So I’m here by myself, in this shitty apartment that I’ve made that way. It could be more. Just like I could’ve been. But you’d loved me through all of my faults. You’d stood by me, always hoping to find the man you prayed I’d one day turn into. Maybe I hoped too, that you were right. That somehow you knew something I didn’t. There was more to me than just a guy who partied too much, who drank until I puked out my guts, who avoided anything serious because God forbid something bring me down. And now I’m so goddamned low, so fucking lonely, that even these words seem like more of a comfort than I had before.
I can’t stop loving you. If I do that, what will be left of me?
Rory closed her eyes, the paper rattling in her fist. Then she set aside her glass and her blanket, jerking to her feet and leaving the letter where it fell.
Chapter Five
Dani,
I went for a walk today. Down the street, around the block to the little playground where that girl with the brown pigtails is always swinging. Back and forth. Back and forth. And I stood there watching her, wondering if that’s what Kayleigh and Brandy might have looked like someday. I’ll never know. I have to draw new pictures in my head or I’ll go crazy missing them. And you.
~ Sam
Sleep, the fickle bitch, shouldn’t have come easily to him that night. Sam expected it wouldn’t, even
stayed up late flipping through some new car books he’d picked up to avoid his bed. But he dropped off the minute he lay down. And wonder of all wonders, he didn’t dream.
Sharing his letters—his secrets basically—with Rory was probably one of the craziest things he’d ever done. He didn’t know her. In essence they had a working relationship and mixing it with anything more would probably be a recipe for disaster.
Which didn’t sound so bad to him at the moment. Even a spectacular failure would be better than the whitewash hell of the past months.
She hadn’t called him last night. Why he’d thought she might, he didn’t know. He hadn’t given her his number for the very reason that he hadn’t wanted to wait for her to call. But he had anyway.
“Pathetic,” he muttered, rubbing a microfiber cloth over the sweet vintage Trans Am he’d gotten in the shop that morning. The beaut was pink. Since he billed himself as a manly man—except for those pesky billboards and love letters—he would’ve denied loving the color but he did. This car was sexy. Polished chrome accents and details like T-tops and spinners all added up to one big dollop of lust.
He ran some figures in his head. Nope, not a chance of coming up with the dough to take this pretty momma home. He already had three classic cars. And no bedframe. The bedframe had to come first.
Hoping some lovely lady might join you in that bed in the near future, Miller?
Dawdling over the memory of Rory’s flushed cheeks and rosy lips, he glanced up as polished red heels stopped beside the Trans Am. When his gaze traveled upward, skimming bare legs nicely displayed in a conservative navy skirt, the hand rubbing circles on the car stopped.
Just like his brain.
