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"That was excellent." He breaks off a piece of bread, scoops up the rest of the pasta-sauce with it and pops it into his mouth. He closes his eyes and makes a humming sound as he chews. The cords of his neck flex as he swallows, and moisture dampens the space between my legs.
My mouth waters, and it’s not because of the enticing smell of the pasta I heated up for him in the kitchen. Sitting opposite me at the breakfast counter, wearing that ridiculous pink bathrobe—which does nothing to detract from his gorgeousness—he’s still sex on a stick. He’ll always be sex on a stick, no matter how old he gets.And is that what I want? To grow old with him? Am I ready to forgive him because he went on his knees for me?
The answer is, I want to. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to. I’m not sure if I can trust him…yet. Can someone really change their ways because they love another person enough? Does he love me enough?It’s the second time he’s said so, and this time, he did seem to mean it, and yet… Something inside me is still not ready to forgive him. Damn.Did he push me so much that I’ve become one of those hard to please, cynical people who don’t believe in the good side of others anymore? I hope not. Still… It’s okay to take time to make up my mind, right?
He snaps his eyelids open and regards me with those mismatched eyes. "It’s okay to take your time," he says softly.
Huh? Did he read my mind? Was he thinking the same thing as me? Are we really so much more on the same wavelength than we were before?Physically, we’ve always been compatible. He’ll always be the man who took my virginity and gave me the kind of orgasms I’m confident no one else can rival, but emotionally…Can I be vulnerable with him? Will he treat me with enough tenderness, enough respect that I know no-one else can make me feel as special as he does?
"You’re it for me, baby. You’re what makes my life worth living. You’re real, vital, special. There’s no one else like you for me in this world, you—"
"Stop." I jump off the barstool and take a few steps back from him. "Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"That!" I point a finger at him. "You’re reading my mind."
"I am?" He inclines his head. "I’m just trying to be honest. For the first time in my life, I’m not hiding behind all that bluster and swagger. This is me, without any of the masks I’ve worn before. This is me, shorn of all pretense."
I drag my fingers through my hair. "I still don’t know whether to believe you."
He flinches, then lowers his chin to his chest. "I deserve that,” he whispers “And you shouldn’t feel pressured to do anything you’re not ready for. I truly believe that." He slides off the stool, then limps over to the sink and washes his hands, before turning to lean a hip against the sink. "I’ll be out of here as soon as my clothes are dry."
"That’s going to take a few hours more." I yawn suddenly.
He looks at me with concern. "You should go to sleep."
"I’m good."
"You look tired. I’m sorry I got you out of bed." He rubs the back of his neck. "That was classic me, huh? Still being selfish and thinking only about myself."
"What are you talking about?"
"I thought it was a good idea to keep a vigil outside your window, but I wasn’t thinking about the impact it would have on you. Or rather, I knew how it would affect you, which is why I did it. And I ended up spoiling your sleep." He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I really am sorry I messed up your night."
"Please, don’t apologize. I’m glad I saw you. If I hadn’t, you’d still be out there in the rain and you’d probably get sick."
"I would’ve deserved it."
"I don’t want anything to happen to you, Cade." I scowl.
His features soften further. "That’s the goodness in you, Abby. Even when you were a snotty mafia princess, I could see you were only putting on a front. I could see the light in you. The brightness that attracted me to you, that made me want to circle you and draw on your brilliance. You were the incandescence in my otherwise bleak life."
My heart melts into one, big, gooey mess. My pulse grows erratic. Goodness, when he puts his mind to it, he has a way with words, doesn’t he? And you know what? He means it. This isn’t a manufactured PR line or some bullshit he’s spewing because he wants to get into my pants.
Of course, he does want to sleep with me—I only need to look at that short-short bathrobe which reveals so much of those muscular, hair-sprinkled thighs, and how the fabric barely covers the tent over his crotch, to know he wants to fuck me. Which, let’s face it, is very flattering. He wants me. He finds me attractive, no matter that I don’t have any make up on and am wearing my oldest yoga pants and sleep shirt, and my hair is in rats’ nest about my face.
To be fair, it’s never mattered what I wore, he’s always wanted me. That much, I’ve been sure of. It’s just the rest of the stuff—how he has the power to tear my heart to pieces— which scares me. How he has the ability to hurt me. How he can reduce me to a crumbling, sobbing mess with just a word or a harsh look. How, if he demands I throw myself on the floor and open my thighs to him, I’ll do it, no questions asked. I wrap my arms about my waist. "What am I going to do now?"
He features grow serious. "Now, you’re going to sleep in your bed. I’ll take the couch."
"You’re too big for it."
His lips kick up. "I’ll manage."
I bite the inside of my cheek. "What, you’re not going to smirk about the fact that I said you’re too big?"
He raises his hands, a too-innocent look on his face. "It didn’t cross my mind." He chuckles. "Okay, it did cross my mind, but it didn’t seem like the time to say something douchebaggy."
