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“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath.
“I already did that,” she mutters in reply.
“Me and you and Giovanni’s is once. But us—all of us—or us with Brax or on special occasions or your birthday? Baby, there have been dozens of dinners at Giovanni’s. You always ask about the fried ravioli, but usually you choose against it because the Italian bread with the olive tapenade and garlic is more your speed. You order the parmigiana when you’re happy, the seafood cannelloni when you’re stressed or sad, and rarely, but it does happen, the spinach lasagna. You do that when you’re hell bent on getting the tiramisu and you want to pretend you’re eating healthy.”
Her eyes scan the table before her face contorts with emotion. It’s not anger or joy. It’s not lust or sadness. It’s… confusion.
“But—” She looks to me.
“But what? You might as well spit it out.”
On the faintest whisper, with her face cast down, I can feel the tremble of fear in her voice. There’s something utterly childlike in her tone. “But you don’t like me.”
The clanging of my dropped fork snaps her head up to mine. I hold her gaze. My poised expression is gone. I have no idea what it communicates to her, but it’s not carefully composed anymore. “Elaborate please.” It’s all I can say. My mind is running ninety miles an hour, and mascarpone is souring in my gut.
“You told me you didn’t like me like that… that you think of me like a little sister.”
“When my cock was inside you, did you think I was thinking familial thoughts of you? When I was rubbing my cum on you, were you under the impression I was wishing we were siblings? When I was eating your pussy, did you think—”
“Stop.”
“Why should I stop? For months, I’ve laid out that I want you, that I’m attracted to you, that I can’t stop thinking about you, that I get hard imagining your face. And this whole time, you thought it was… what? A game?”
When she doesn’t respond, I go on. “Or did you think it was a lie? That I was using you to get off?” My voice rises. “How could you think that?”
“Because you said so. Because when I came to you, you said nothing could ever happen. You told me I was like a little sister to you and that you’d beat up anyone who hurt me just like my brothers.” Her voice hitches, but her eyes are daggers. “Because you told me so. And I believed you. Why should I believe any differently now?”
* * *
Brighton
“And that’swhy you need to resist me?”
I nod.
“And that’s why you were crying before you ghosted me?”
God. I don’t even want to think about that night. I jerk my head once, avoiding his gaze. He pauses his questioning until I look up again.
“Is that why you kicked me out after our first night together?”
Obviously. But I don’t say that. I just bob my head once, pushing my cannelloni around my plate.
“So, a decade ago—and someday, darlin’, I’ll tell you about all that was going on then—I said no to your teenage advances, and I hurt you.”
My teenage advances. I don’t like the sound of that. Though, I have to admit, even though I hate to do so, that if an eighteen-year-old showed up here to pledge undying love for me now, I would call it the same. Recognizing that, I swallow past the ever-softening lump in my throat before nodding again.
“Look at me, Brighton.”
I lift my head, but struggle to meet his gaze. When I do, the tenderness in his face breaks me. He slides his chair back, and opens his arms for me. “Come here, baby.”
It takes all the courage I have to move my leaden legs toward his chair, but I do it anyway. Every dream I’ve ever had includes this man. And if he’s here, in my kitchen, laying it all out, he could crush me. But it would be the last time.
Either way, the risk is there. It always has been. And I’m brave so I jump, knowing I’m strong enough to catch myself if he doesn’t.
I climb onto his lap, feeling awkward.
He wraps both arms around me, cocooning me, and pulls me closer to him. I start to duck my head under his chin, but he pulls away, and I temper myself to avoid the sharp sting of his correction. Or worse, his rejection.
