Page 22 of When I Had You

“I’m just picking up the vibe you’re dropping down.”

“Come here.”

“No.”

“Marina.” It’s not a question. By his tone, it’s definitely a demand.

My arms tighten over my chest, holding tight to my newly formed defenses. “No.”

“God, you’re so fucking stubborn.” Reaching forward, he grabs me by the hips and pulls me to him.

A squeal instead of a protest escapes as I land in his lap. Any other guy, I’d be clawing his eyes out. Cash’s eyes are simply too nice to ruin. But otherwise, they’d be toast. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you to listen.”

I’m not about to tell him I’ve been called stubborn a time or two, but he has a point. I sometimes get caught in my thoughts instead of seeing what’s right in front of me. So to spite the alcohol that wants to muddy my mind, I try to think clearly and be levelheaded about this. “Fine. Tell me what you want to say so badly.”

“Stop wasting time trying to figure out what went wrong because the answer is always going to be that your ex is just an asshole. So don’t second-guess what you did or didn’t do. And don’t hold it against every other guy out there because he doesn’t speak or act on our behalf. He’s an idiot for letting you go. A million other men are smarter than that.”

Trying not to fall apart in his arms from the sweetness, I melt instead—my heart, my defenses, and my willpower not to kiss this man. Why does he have to be so good to me? If he keeps this up, I won’t fight against this wave of emotions and give in to his tide instead.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Forty-two.”

My head jerks. “Whoa. Forty-two inches?”

He chuckles, rubbing my hip like he has no intention of giving me up anytime soon. I love it. Damn him. He says, “The meaning of life, but thanks for the compliment.”

“Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“Hmm. Guess we’ll just have to find out.” My laughter releases like bubbles in champagne, making me feel lighter in his arms. “What were you really going to ask?”

It’s not in the words he said, although they hit close to home. They were a home run, in fact. But it’s the way he sounds; he knows what I’m going through, and he’s been there before from personal experience.

Is that why I trust him?

Is that why I remain on his lap?

Savoring every second and every word he shares?

Yes.

I tap the end of his nose. “What do you suggest I do?” I ask, booping the tip. “And it better not involve sex with you.”

Clicking his tongue, he grins. “There goes that plan.” He reaches up to tuck my hair back from my face. His smile disappears as his fingers linger on the shell of my ear. A rise in his chest spurs other body parts to rise along with it. “I . . . uh . . .”

“Eight months.” I suck in a breath and release it easily around him. “I think it’s been eight months since I had sex or anything else that would . . . would—”

“Would?”

“Release some tension.”

I almost expected him to laugh out loud at me, but that’s not what he does. His fingertips slide around my ear, then lower to my collarbone. He traces an imaginary design across my chest, leaving a wake of goose bumps behind, and whispers, “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, it’s a tragedy.” I wriggle on top of him because we’ve come this far already anyway.

The right side of his mouth lifts. And though that just adds to his appeal, that part of him hasn’t captured my attention. He’s hard and large, and I move again to feel more of him. My lids threaten to close, my body willing to take the chance that pleasure could be found through rubbing against him. With the heat of our connection spreading into my chest, I do what I don’t want to, touching his cheek with the tips of my fingers and whispering, “I should go. Nothing good happens after two a.m.”

---