Page 21 of The Promise Of You

He turns to face me, rakes his fingers in my hair as if he’s combing it, and this time he tucks it behind my ears and smooths it continuously, like a nervous tick. Like he’s thinking things through. “I could never be just friends with you.” With both his hands behind my nape, he brings me up to him and takes my mouth in his, a slow, soft, sad kiss. I strive to keep my eyes open, to commit him to memory. His eyelids are shut tight like someone who wants to—needs to—bottle everything up. Then he lets go of my mouth and holds me tight in his arms. “Never told anyone what I told you tonight. I want you to carry this for me. But I can’t be anything more. Can you give me that?”

I hold in my tears. “Of course.”

“One more thing,” he adds with a smirk. “No more assholes. Promise me.”

I force a chuckle. “Promise.”

Seeming satisfied, he tries the key card again, and this time it bleeps.

His hand freezes on the panel. “I don’t want to presume… it’d be understandable if you wanted to rest… you know. We already spent half the night together,” he whispers, the tickle of his mouth against my temple sending delicious shivers down my spine. “What do you want from the other half?” He sets his chin on the top of my head. His heartbeat drums against my core.

I tilt my face up to meet his eyes, now clear green in the bright light. My mouth goes dry. “I want more. I want everything. I want all of you.”

six

Chloe

His room has the same layout as mine, but flipped. It’s a nondescript, middle-of-the-line chain hotel room, and it should feel sterile and temporary, but it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because he’s been here a few days. There’s a pair of jeans on a chair, running shoes in a corner, and a travel bag shoved under the writing desk. And the shape of his head on one of the pillows. And his subtle, manly scent floating.

Or maybe it’s because we have a few hours to ourselves, a few hours to be us, here. Like one lifetime encapsulated in another, in this space.

I’m tempted to push him on the topic of not seeing each other after tonight.

But he’s right. I’m myself only because I won’t see him again. I can let go. He’s giving me this amazing gift, and I’m going to enjoy it. I kick my shoes off and put my phone on silent as he hands me a bottle of water. I take a long gulp. Then another. I was parched.

“Better?” he asks, his face gentle and caring, making my heart skip a beat.

I give him a smile and slip into the bathroom first. When I come out, he has the lights dimmed, his stray clothes stored away, the pillow fluffed, and music seeping out of somewhere.

He slips into the bathroom and comes out of it barefoot and hair half-tamed like he might have tried to run wet fingers through it.

“Where were we, earlier? Before we got all deep into our shit,” he growls as he pulls me into him.

My core warms. You had me pinned between the wall and your hard body, my wrist in your strong hand, and I had my other hand around your neck. “You were going to change my mind about elevators.”

His gaze turns molten. “Totally messed that one up,” he mumbles.

Totally did not mess up. But before I can argue with him, he seals his mouth to mine and wraps his hands around my waist, up my back, in my hair. His tongue takes my mouth without asking, and I let him, my body pressed against him, begging for more. He finds the top button of my blouse and opens it without breaking the kiss, sliding his hand inside, letting out a low growl when his fingers find my nipple.

A moan escapes me, desire zinging down to my center. I reach between us to undo the rest of my buttons and wiggle out of my blouse, letting it plummet to the desk. He pulls away from me a bit, his eyes widening as he looks at my chest like it’s the most beautiful thing ever. He’s so in awe of my body it’s intimidating, and I fleetingly wonder if he’s so enthralled with every woman. If he’s into women as a collector would be.

I open his shirt, button after button, down to his navel, and push it off his arms, letting it gently fall to the floor. I trail the designs on his skin with the tip of my fingers—leaves and tree bark and animals—and shiver as the uneven surface under the ink tells the story of the wound on his soul. The red, tortured scars of his skin, turned into a work of art.

His pain a secret hiding behind ink.

I trace the shapes covering his tormented skin with my tongue, committing them to memory. Then I press my lips to the center spot, untouched, unscarred, and naked of ink, feeling his heartbeat right under my kiss.

He gently presses my face deeper into him, and I feel his heartbeat pick up and his chest rumble when he says, “I want to make love to you, Clover.”

Isn’t that what we’re doing?

“I’ll fuck you later, but right now, I need to make love to you. Do you get me?”

I lift my face to his and twine my hands around his neck, then nod silently.

“Good, ’cause I’m not sure I get it myself.”

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