“I was raised by a single father,” he says. “My mother died when I was four. I don’t remember much about her.”
His voice gets even deeper, dreamier, as though he’s sinking into the past.
“I remember a woman singing. I remember her smile. But that’s it. And even those memories might not be true. I could have invented it all.” He shrugs. “But it was something to cling to, when I was a kid, when my old man…”
“I lost my mom when I was young too,” I say, though I didn’t plan to. “I can’t remember her at all. I was only two. How did you lose yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A car accident,” he says. “A stupid, pointless accident. No one to blame but the terrible driving conditions and the icy road. You… if you don’t mind me asking?”
My whole body throbs, but not in the usual way he provokes. My skin feels hot, as though I’m burning up from the inside. If I was a superstitious person, I’d label this as proof.
What are the chances?
“A car accident,” I whisper, a shiver passing through me. “On an icy night. Bad driving conditions.”
He reaches across the table, taking my hand, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. His touch electrifies me, compelling a sensation to whisper over my hand, up my arm, into my chest, and to my heart. I squeeze on harder, feeling the loss as though it only happened a few minutes ago, stunned by his affection.
Yet, beneath it all, there’s the ever-present howling of my lust. There’s the full-body buzzing that makes my sex feel sticky and needy and starved for attention.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“So am I,” I whisper.
“What about your dad?” he asks.
I drop his hand. I don’t mean to, but my body goes taut at the mention of my dad. I remember the pain, the fear, the crippling knowledge that there was no going back.
“He died when I was a teenager. My older sister, Casey, raised me after that. He was… he was shot. In front of me. We were at the corner store and this man came in, mask, gun, the whole getup. I remember he was laughing and then the robber burst in. Dad tried to talk him down. The man didn’t like that…”
No, not here. Not now.
I shouldn’t have explained what happened in so much detail. I shouldn’t have let my mind go there. But now I’m there, I feel like a hostage, held captive by the memory, forced to watch as it repeats itself.
The tears stream down my cheeks like traitors when all I want to do is hold them back.
I let out an ugly choking sound, relieved we’re in a private section of the restaurant, that all those fancy men and women can’t see how my emotions best me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pawing at my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to ruin our date.”
“You haven’t ruined anything.”
He walks around the table, kneels at my side, and then draws me into a hug. I fall gratefully against him, burying my face against his solid chest. He wraps his arms around me and strokes his fingers through my hair, softly whispering, telling me it’s okay, I don’t have to be ashamed of my tears.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but the more contact we keep, the more demanding the need inside of me becomes. It’s a totally out-of-place feeling, intermingled with the sadness and the grief, but it’s like my body refuses to stop.
Even now, my nipples rub sensitively against my bra. My head swims with all possible things he could do to me, once the tears have stopped, once the full weight of the memory has relinquished its hold on me.
“I’m sorry.” I lean back, trying for a smile. “I guess I’ll leave this part off my blog.”
“You don’t have to.” His touch is so tender as he strokes his thumb across my cheek. “It’s honest. It’s you.”
I giggle. “I’m not sure what that means.”
He smirks, lighter this time, almost a smile. It’s the least grumpy and severe I’ve seen him, even in pictures.
“It means… never apologize for being you. Never say sorry for being honest, and genuine. When you live half your life as a celebrity, with people falling over themselves to tell you how great you are, afraid to show their true selves, it’s nice to meet someone who is unapologetically herself.”
“That’s so romantic,” I whisper.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
I’m not sure how it happens. One moment we’re staring into each other’s eyes, completely consumed with the other, and then he’s leaning in and I’m doing the same.
Our lips brush, soft at first.
Preston makes a snarling sound, like an animal who can’t resist his meal any longer. His lips crash into mine. I gasp at the force of the kiss, our teeth clicking, and then our mouths part on instinct.