You Make Me (Blurred Lines #1)(34)
Author: Erin McCarthy

I spread mustard and tried not to drool. He never glanced my way, so I was free to check him out the entire time. Part of me felt guilty since Ethan and I had just broken up, but at the same time, my attraction to Heath pre-dated Ethan. It felt like it had nothing whatsoever to do with Ethan. But I had expected Heath to show up and immediately push his agenda and I’d been prepared to deflect that a little. Enjoy it a little. This I didn’t understand.

It almost felt like he was being…brotherly to me.

Which was the cruelest of all ironies.

He swung again, whacking the log hard, splitting it in two perfectly even pieces. I sighed, my body betraying me. His body was more mature now. But so was mine. It made me restless.

After we ate Heath poked around the living room while I lay on the couch, watching him. “I missed the ferry,” he said, nonchalantly, picking up an old newspaper and frowning at it.

“Did you?” I asked, equally nonchalant. “I wasn’t watching the time.” Which was a lie. I had known he was at risk for missing it, and I’d chosen to stay silent.

“This is from 2006,” he commented.

“That’s new for most things in this house.” I was lying on my back, hands behind my head, content to relax and study him. “Want to build a fire with all that wood you chopped? It will be dark soon.”

He dropped the newspaper. “We can do that.”

“Or we can watch a movie.”

“How about we watch a movie, then make a bonfire?” He went to study the old and small collection of DVDs. “Where did half of these come from?”

“Most of them Brian borrowed from the library and never returned. Pick any one.”

He did, just grabbing one and turning on the TV and old school DVD player. He opened the case and put the disc in. Remote in hand he came over to me. “You’re hogging the couch.”

That hurt my feelings for some reason. “I’m comfortable.”

He dropped down on the floor at my side, his back against the couch. “Diva.”

Without warning there were tears in my eyes.

Heath made a sound in the back of his throat. “What’s wrong? I was just joking. I don’t think you’re a diva. Cat, talk to me, baby.”

“Why won’t you touch me?” I asked, ashamed that I was so needy, but needing to know the answer. “You’ve been avoiding touching me all day.”

He rubbed his hand over his face and gave a small laugh. “Trust me, it’s not because I haven’t wanted to. It’s hard as hell to control myself.”

I had rolled onto my side so that our faces were only a few inches apart. “Why do you have to control yourself?” I whispered.

“Because it has to come from you,” he said earnestly. “Your relationship just ended. You’re vulnerable. I could take you, but then I would own you because I made it happen. And what I love the most about you is your spirit, your independence. Your will. Taking you would be like trying to grab a wave and hold onto it… it’s impossible. It would wash away.” He reached out and stroked the back of his hand down my cheek. “Do you understand that? I need it to be your choice, for both our sakes, even if holding back kills me.”

I looked into his eyes, amazed at how well he knew me, how despite all that time apart, he still knew what I would need. Because he was right. As much as I would want him to make it easy, and take control, the choice had to be mine. I couldn’t just let something happen between us, it had to be conscious. “How can you understand me more than I understand myself?” I asked him, leaning into his touch, softly kissing his knuckles.

His eyes bore into mine. “Because you make me. Because I didn’t exist, not in any way that matters, until I met you.”

Chapter Thirteen

I sighed. It was a quiet exhalation of breath, but it was also an internal sigh, in my heart. One single tear fell down my cheek, onto his hand, and I knew that he was right. Our lives, our souls, were entwined. For good or bad, I was connected to him in a way that defied time, logic, and distance.

“I love you,” I said. “I always have.”

“I love you, too. It used to bother me, that I didn’t know who I was or where I came from, just that my mother was a runaway with a fake name. But when I met you none of that mattered because I figured out who I was- the man who had been born to love you.”

“Oh, God,” I whispered, hand trembling as I covered his where it rested on my cheek. “I missed you.” All the fears, the worry that it was merely teen infatuation, concern over the future, evaporated. I didn’t care what had happened yesterday or what was going to happen tomorrow. I just wanted to feel his lips on mine, his arms around me.

I was in an awkward position, propped on one elbow, but I didn’t want to wait. Leaning forward, straining, I watched him watching me, knowing that he knew what I was about to do. If he wanted me to touch him first, I would. I would cross that line because I had to let him know what he meant to me. That despite planning a future without him, I’d never stopped loving him.

His eyes darkened, his hand still on my cheek. His lips parted but I knew he wasn’t going to say anything.

I kissed him, and it was a trembling, tentative kiss, partly from the angle, partly from being emotionally overwhelmed. A soft brush over lips I knew so well. I pulled back an inch, closing my eyes, just collecting myself.

“The idea of that kept me alive for three years,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Kiss me again. Please.”

Moving his hand down, over my chest, to my waist, I shifted so I could wrap my arms around his neck. This time when I kissed him, it was slow, languid, a deep, deep longing expressed between us. So much time. So much fear. My fingers massaged at the nape of his neck, and I closed my eyes, sinking into him. I had been kissing someone else for a year, and Ethan kissed differently, with shorter, noisier presses and I had learned to adjust, accommodate that.

But it only took the one for me to remember how to kiss Heath, to slide back into what worked so well between us. They were deep, hot kisses, mouths perfectly aligned, my body in tune with his. He moved on the floor, shifting so that he was more fully facing me. He gripped my waist tightly, and threaded his free hand into my hair, his tongue teasing my mouth open.

That soft invasion, that thrust and withdrawal, had me groaning, desire coming in a huge flood of desperate need. What had started out as a trembling brush of my lips over his had dived into a hot tango of tongues, our movements hungry, anxious. He pressed me back, down onto the couch and he slid over me, his muscular arms holding his body up so he brushed against, but didn’t crush me. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, pushing my hair back off my face. “Are you sure you want to do this?”