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Her throat felt thick with the promise of that.
He dropped his head so his words were a muffled whisper in the curve of her neck. “A woman whose body hasn’t been worshipped in all the ways it needs.”
A moan escaped her lips, soft and urgent, because his words were weaving through her, a form of foreplay, so that she was quivering with desire, desperate for him.
“You’re playing with me,” she accused unevenly.
“Am I?”
“Yes. You told me you don’t want me, so stop talking as though –,”
He breathed against the curve of her neck. “I never said I don’t want you.”
That was true. She stayed right where she was, pressed close to him, wondering if perhaps words were unnecessary between them. Maybe words just ruined it, or complicated it.
“The girl I mentioned, before,” his voice was deep and throaty, as though dragged from him.
She continued dancing, but slowly, swaying from side to side, breath held lest he stop speaking.
“I ruined her life, in no uncertain terms. Unequivocally, destroyed her. I made her miserable, I hurt her. I was completely in the wrong. I will never forget what that looked like – her pain, and knowing myself to be responsible.”
She pulled back a little, trying to see his face, then wished she hadn’t at the obvious torment there. It made her ache to comfort him, a desire that was at odds with their relationship. And yet – was it? So much had changed since they’d arrived here.
“Who was she?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. My point is only that I am very careful now, not to hurt anyone. It’s not that I don’t want you, Bronte. It’s that I don’t want to risk hurting you. Not after what you’ve already been through.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
She thought about that. “Because you don’t have the power to hurt me, and I won’t give it to you. I don’t care about you in that way, Luca. I see this for what it is.”
Hesitation was scored in the lines of his face. She waited, her body on alert, needing him to agree, needing him to say anything that showed he was going to soften his stance.
“Mind if I cut in?”
Bronte blinked, the unwelcome intrusion coming to her as if through a very long tunnel. She pulled back from Luca, frowning, taking a moment to realise her dad was standing nearby, a kindly smile on his face.
“Of course,” Luca dropped his grip on Bronte, taking a grateful step backwards. “I have a call I need to make. Excuse me.”
Bronte watched him weave through the room, towards the
glass doors that led to the terrace. As he walked, he pulled his phone from his pocket, flicking the screen to life.
“He seems like a nice guy. I like him.”
She frowned. “Do you?”
“A definite improvement.” He wiggled his thick greying eyebrows as he put a hand on Bronte’s hip and took her other in his.
“You liked Ashton.”
“I liked him because you loved him,” Charles said conspiratorially. “And because your mother’s friends with his mum. But actually, he’s a bit of a bore, isn’t he?”
Surprise had her lips parting. “Dad!”
“What? I can be honest now, can’t I? You’ve moved on.”
