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He glances at me again, his features tight, his arms tighter, his body looking as though he’s ready to fight or grab me again. Drag me into his lap, his manhood pressing hard, and then slip between my legs, pushing back and forth as I gaze at him, unable to believeI’mthe one making him so wild…
“Okay,” he says, sighing. “If you really want to. But let’s find somewhere to get you warm first.”
CHAPTERTWELVE
Bryson
I told Harper we should find somewhere to get her warm before I shared the reason I don’t drink, but it was a delay tactic.
Now, sitting in the corner of a pizza joint, the lights shining brightly down on us, I know I can’t delay any longer. She’s sitting opposite me, her hands wrapped around her cup of cocoa, the steam rising.
It’s difficult not to reach over, to brush her wavy hair from her face.
To let my hand linger on her cheek, feel her warmth press through her skin, the heat of her lust, of….
Of something else.
Affection. The future. Love?
I need to slow down.
Sitting here together is foolish, but as long as we don’t touch each other or loudly proclaim our desire, we should be okay.
I can always tell Adam I ran into her by coincidence. Would he believe that, after what I did, after the fight?
“Are you hungry?” Harper asks, as though finding the silence difficult.
I shake my head, staring hard at her. “Not for food.”
That makes her cheeks blush gorgeously, reminding me of the way her round ass looked as I buried my hands in her flesh, pushing them together and slipping my manhood in between.
I push those thoughts away. They take me far too close to the edge, and anyway, my woman deserves better than to be treated like that.
I’ll let the savage out… eventually.
“Adam never told you I grew up in an orphanage,” I say.
She looks at me as though eager for more. Her eyes widened in that intoxicating way. “He never talked about your personal life.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I didn’t have it as bad as some others. My parents were alcoholics. I don’t remember much about them, except for the yelling and the fights. Then they lost custody. I was raised in the system. I went through a period in my twenties…”
Her hand slides across the table. When I move mine away, she flinches, as if waking from a dream—a dream in which she can squeeze my hand in comfort without blowing our worlds to pieces.
Her hand returns to her cocoa.
“I drank,” I tell her. “A lot. I repeated the mistakes of my parents. Luckily, I never did anything bad. I’d finish my classes at med school. Then I’d come home and study some more, drinking myself to sleep. One morning I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror, and dammit…”
My voice is shaking. “I never talk about this stuff.”
Harper looks at me patiently. The pizza joint bleeds away behind her, and she’s in the birthing bed, the same expression on her face as I cradle our first child.
“It was like my dad was staring back at me,” I tell her.
I’m tempted to mention Eva, but then I remember what Adam said, what Eva herself said, and I let that thought drop away.
“That’s when you stopped?” Harper asks.
“Yeah. I had to. I couldn’t repeat those mistakes.”
