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His eyes search mine as though the answer to his question can be found inside, but I know by the ever-present longing on his face, it can’t.
Oh boy, if it could…
Every day I spend with this man, working on characters I based on us, I get a little heavier with guilt. My conscience, reminding me it’s there and not, you know, on a six-month hiatus to Siberia like I’d like it to be.
And while I can appreciate the motherboard of my soul not being fried to smithereens in a way that makes my reflection seem cloaked in sixes, I wouldn’t know where to start when breaking the news of this whole debacle—and I don’t think Chase would be ready to hear it even if I did.
It’s big—gargantuan, really—to find out you’ve had an entire novel written about you without your knowledge. That someone studied you closely enough to create an entire world revolving around you—without your consent.
Ugh. It’s not good. I know it’s not good. But I feel absolutely nauseated at the thought of experiencing the effects of truth serum in living color. What would Chase say? What would he think? Would he drive the motor home straight to the nearest psych ward?
Instead of divulging the secrets of my heart, I stick to the surface of the truth. It’s real. It’s raw. But it doesn’t score me wide open without the safe haven of a surgeon to put me back together.
“Yes. I do.”
Sweet merciful Jesus, do I ever, Chase Dawson.
He swallows and nods, and within the flash of a second, his concentration has moved from my eyes to my lips.
Heart beating wildly, I shiver under the intensity of his gaze and beg of myself to stay alert. Benji picks up his head from his spot in the front of the limo, but I will him with every shred of my nonexistent superpowers to stay put just a little while longer. The womanliest part of me needs this moment—to feel sexy and alive and grown. The truth of the matter is, I haven’t craved a man’s touch the way I do Chase Dawson’s at any other singular time in my life.
Not on the night I lost my virginity. Not on the night I married Jamie.
Not ever.
Fuzziness enters my vision, and Benji stops hanging back. I can feel his body as it pushes against my legs with urgency, but Chase doesn’t move out of the way. He doesn’t back up; he doesn’t balk. One moment, I’m on the brink of unconsciousness, and the next, his lips are on mine.
Chase. Dawson’s. Lips.
An organ I’ve written a literal sonnet about before. Yes, really. Yes, I know I’m pathetic. Yes, I burned it.
The shock of his swift action is enough to defibrillate my heart back into a normal rhythm, and all the fog in my head clears by magic. My feelings are crisp and clear, and my stomach feels like it could fly to the moon.
I am found in this moment.
My confidence, my self-love—they’re both renewed with fervor. I deserve this culmination of my fantasies. I deserve to feel the warmth of his lips on mine. I deserve—
Shock tingles through my limbs as Chase pulls back so abruptly it feels violent, and he sets me away by the flesh of my arms. My throat no longer feels warm and right; instead, it feels dry and empty.
I can’t speak, can’t move—not even to run and hide. All I can do is stare.
He rocks from one side to the other and then does an entire one-eighty spin before running angry hands through his beautiful, dark hair. Even agitated and fresh off rejecting me, he is the embodiment of my perfect male specimen.
It’s confirmed: I’m so, so pathetic.
And then suddenly, I’m not.
Chase closes the distance quickly, pushing our bodies together until they feel almost entirely like one. I take a deep breath that tastes like him, and his eyes flare infinitesimally.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“For what?” I ask raggedly.
“For pulling away. It’s not because I don’t want you.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s because I want you so badly I’m afraid I won’t be able to control myself. I don’t want to hurt you.”
A thrill runs down my spine at the growled words I never wrote in the book.
Right now, Chase Dawson is no Clive Watts.
No.
Right now, Chase Dawson is even better.
Very Early Friday, June 2nd
Chase
Her teeth tug at my lip, and I shove a hand into the back of her long hair as the limo pulls away. Locked together, the two of us stumble to the stairs of the motor home, and I pull her toward me with one hand while the other works at the door handle. I can’t get close enough fast enough, and from the way her legs are trying to climb my own, I’m thinking she’s feeling the same way.
