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Never before have I felt as if I needed anyone but my family.
But I need this man.
Right now, I need him.
Slowly, his gaze drops, lingering on my mouth and then traveling over my breasts, before he says, “For the record,” his hand warm on my bare knee, “I will never sit on this bench again, and not think of you right now, sitting here just like this, naked and beautiful.” His eyes meet mine and are warm, gentle even, tender. “And I do want you here,” he adds.
My breath lodges in my throat and any thought of leaving fades into the darkness of moments before. He tugs his T-shirt over my head, and I push my arms through the sleeves, the scent of him on my skin, and all around me now.
“Thank you for the compliment and the T-shirt.”
“I’m just speaking the truth, and as for the T-shirt, it was a gift based on being greedy. I was making sure you didn’t get dressed and run.”
It’s a statement that feels layered, punched with measured meaning. “Why would I run, Kace?”
He studies me a long moment, his expression indiscernible before he says, “I do believe the reasons are many.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about his reasons or mine. Or maybe both? Either way, I remind myself that whatever I felt moments before, he’s made it clear this isn’t more than—well, whatever this night is. Didn’t he? I am not exactly sure what we said now any more than I know how to reply. What is certain is that I’m suddenly cold, the chill of the apartment I was too occupied before now to notice, sending a chill down my spine. I shiver, and Kace reacts, catching my hand, and pulling me to my feet. The next thing I know, he’s scooped me up in his arms again. I yelp and laugh as he starts walking. “What are you doing?”
“The floor is cold and the fire is hot. We’re moving to the fireplace.”
Once again, and oh so easily, he has me laughing. “I could have walked.”
“The floor is cold and you’re in your stockinged feet.”
Stockings and his T-shirt. While he carries me across the room. I don’t know if I could have imagined such a moment. He sets me down in a cozy little sitting area with a gray leather couch, two chairs, and an incredible coffee table that has a wooden violin as its pedestal. All of which are accented with a lighter plush rug. Kace sets me on the couch and grabs a blanket he wraps around me. “Let me get the fire started.”
I snuggle into the soft blanket while he walks around the table and to the wall, next to the sleek fireplace that almost seems to float inside encased glass, flipping a switch that ignites a blue and orange hazed flame. Moments later, he sits on the gorgeous table right in front of me, his hands settling intimately on my knees. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
“Good,” he says and I believe he means it. He’s thoughtful, caring, a man who is dark and light, and I crave an understanding of why. I shouldn’t though.
“I’m never here”, he says. “I forgot how chilly the windows make it in the winter.”
He’s never here. This should be empowering. He’s a temptation that can’t last, and yet, somehow the idea of him leaving pinches, no, it stabs at me.
Thankfully he doesn’t notice. He snags his phone from his pocket. “I’ll order the food. What do you love and hate?”
“Fish. I hate fish.”
His eyebrow arches. “Even shrimp and lobster?”
“Yes. I don’t eat ocean bugs.”
He laughs and it’s such a warm laugh. Such a masculine laugh. “We’ll have to work on changing your palate.”
The statement implies he plans to be around to do so, but that’s a contradiction to him never being home. And as he said himself, he’s not my forever guy. I assumed that means, he’s my one-night guy. But I’m not running for the door and he’s not pushing me to the door, either. He moves to sit next to me and places an order for a “Dueling Dozen” whatever that is, and then sets his phone on the table. “Food will be here in about twenty minutes. I don’t have any tequila to go with the tacos, but I have wine.”
“Wine is great,” I say, and unbidden, I think of my mother and her evening glass of wine, a habit she’d formed with my father and had never given up. There were so many ways I felt her hold onto him. Sometimes I feared too much for her sanity.
“Any preferences?” Kace asks. “Sweet? Dry? White? Red?”
“Surprise me.”
“You certainly have me,” he says softly, and like so many things with Kace, there seems to be more to that statement than a simple tease, which is why I’m not surprised when he doesn’t wait for a reply. He stands and disappears somewhere behind the couch, and I think of all that has transpired with Kace. I think of the torment I’ve felt and even tasted beneath his surface. I no longer believe that violins and music alone connect us. We are two ships on a stormy sea, looking for our lighthouse in each other. I fear we’re really just helping each other crash into the rocky shore. I think he does as well.
