Hard Sell (Page 42)

I take a sip of my wine.

“I graduated at eighteen, and after basically harassing my half brothers’ family to take full custody and give them a stable home, I took the first bus I could out of there.”

“You ever go back?”

“Never,” I say emphatically.

“You talk to her?”

I hesitate, a little ashamed of my answer. “No. But I send her a birthday gift every year. I don’t know why. It only opens the door to guilt trips and requests for money.”

He inhales long and hard through his nose, as though searching for the right words. Instead he pulls my wineglass out of my hand, sets it aside. Then he gathers me to him, my head against his chest, his heart steady and reassuring beneath my ear.

I feel his lips on my hair, and though I don’t think I’ve ever sought a hug for comfort in my entire life, at this moment, I get why people do. I let my arm slide around his waist, closing my eyes at how right it feels to be held by him.

Neither of us speaks for long minutes, lost in our own thoughts. Me, relief at finally having my ugly past out there. Him, likely trying to process it all.

“I’ve got two questions. Not sure you’ll like either one,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

I smile but don’t lift my head. “You sure know how to get a girl excited.”

“Your mom’s past. Is that why you were so destroyed by my callous words when we first met? When I said you were worth every penny?”

“Whoa, hey now,” I say, pushing up to a seated position. “I wasn’t destroyed. I was annoyed.”

He says nothing, just waits.

I wait, too.

He wins.

“Okay, fine, yes. You struck a nerve, although you obviously didn’t do it intentionally.”

“Well, even not knowing your past, I shouldn’t have said it,” he says, running a hand over my hair. “But knowing your past . . . I’d give anything for a time machine.”

“To change my childhood or to change that night?”

“Both,” he says with a smile.

I smile back. “What’s your second question?”

“Are your mom’s relationships with men the reason you’re anti-relationship?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “But to be fair, where I’m from, there weren’t many happy relationships. Most of the kids in my class came from divorced homes, single-parent families, foster homes. My school wasn’t exactly a quaint little brick building off Main Street.”

He winces, and I laugh.

“Oh my gosh. You went to a brick school off Main Street, didn’t you?”

“Technically it was Main Drive.”

“Well . . .” I go back to fiddling with the string on the blanket. “If knowing you has taught me anything, it’s that a nice house in a neighborhood with clean streets doesn’t always mean a happy home.”

“Certainly not,” he says in agreement. “But my family issues . . . God, I can’t believe I even complained about them to you.”

“Don’t think that way,” I say, looking up and meeting his eyes. “Your pains are just as valid.”

We hold each other’s gaze for several seconds, and there’s nothing uncomfortable about it. Merely understanding.

“We’re kind of screwed up, huh?” he says with a sad smile.

“I prefer the word guarded.” I wink in an effort to lighten the mood. “We’re just smart enough to know that two people can enjoy each other’s company, maybe even be friends, without the whole messy, painful stuff.”

He pushes his hand farther into my hair, fingers tangling in the messy curls. “Friends, huh?”

“Hypothetically. You know, in theory. For people who actually like each other.”

“Not us, though,” Matt murmurs.

“Definitely not,” I say softly as he pulls me in for a kiss, and I smile when I feel his smile.

The kiss starts out light and playful, but with each brush of our lips, we linger a little longer, our breath growing a little faster.

“Sabrina,” he says. “This enjoying-each-other’s-company thing you speak of . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Care to enjoy each other’s company . . .” His mouth moves down my neck. “You care to enjoy each other in the bedroom?”

I manage a nod, and when Matt stands and scoops me into his arms, I have the breathtaking realization that despite my words, I’ve been wrong about not having avoided the “messy, painful stuff.”

I’m horribly, awfully aware that . . . I’m already in the middle of it.

I’m already all the way, painfully in love with a man who will never love me back.

27

MATT

Friday Night, October 6

I thought I knew every type of sex. Fast sex. Playful sex. Angry sex. Dirty sex. Public sex. Vanilla sex . . .

The moment I set Sabrina on the bed, I know tonight is different. I know that whatever’s about to happen between us will go beyond anything I’ve known before.

Because tonight matters. She matters.

And I intend to show her.

Sabrina’s hands reach for me the moment I lower over her, but I gently take both her hands in mine, pressing them down to the mattress as my mouth moves over hers.

She huffs in protest but kisses me back, her lips and tongue greedy, her hips tilting toward mine in invitation.

Lifting her hands above her head, I pin her wrists with my left hand and use my right to skim down her side, flattening my palm to her hip. Slow down. Let me savor you.

I feel the moment she capitulates, her breath coming out on a sigh against my lips. She tastes a little like wine and whiskey, but mostly she tastes like her. That elusive, captivating element that is simply Sabrina.

No woman has ever gotten to me like this one does. No one’s ever wiggled beneath my guard to make me long for things that aren’t even real.

Usually I push aside these realizations, determined to keep her at a distance, however I can.

Tonight—just for tonight—I let her in.

I let her in the way she let me in, telling me every heartbreaking detail of her early life. I want to tell her that it’s made her strong. That every hardship she’s endured has made her remarkable.

But I don’t have the words, and I’m not sure she’d be ready to hear them even if I did.

Instead, I show her. I show her with kisses, first on her sassy mouth, then along the sensitive column of her throat.

I tell her with my hand drifting over her side, her hip, her thighs, until we’re both panting for more. More touching, more contact, more everything.

I slip a hand beneath her sweater to where her skin is hot and just the slightest bit damp. I unhook her bra, then slide my hand upward, palming her breast, heavy and perfect in my hand.

She groans, twisting her wrists to be released. I relent, only because I need her naked and writhing beneath me.

I peel her sweater over her head, both my hands cupping her breasts before the garment even hits the floor.

She says my name on a sigh, almost like a prayer instead of the usual curse. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the importance of the moment, then realizing I don’t want to.

I open them, looking into her face as I use my fingers to tease her nipples, holding her gaze as I lower my mouth to her.

I know this woman’s body better than I’ve known anyone else’s, and I know that for all her strong feistiness, her breasts are sensitive. I keep my touch light and teasing, my kisses soft and fleeting.