Page 68 of When Hearts Collide

She trails her fingers up my forearm and my muscles automatically flex. The pink in her cheeks deepens and she frees that fucking lip from her teeth.

Sharp heat shoots south, and my dick twitches in my pants.

Her fingers linger on my biceps. She looks up at me from under her long lashes. “Got to put a strong, powerful man like you to good use.”

She sounds breathy. I want to hear this voice when I’m tangled in the bedsheets with her at night.

“Oh yeah?”

She’s drawing circles on my arm now, and I can feel every stroke on my throbbing cock. I shift my stance.

“Go on, be a good student for me,” she whispers, her eyes dilating and flickering to my mouth, “listen to your teacher.”

My nostrils flare and my cock roars to full-mast.

Fuck me.

Chapter 26

The class passes by in a blur. After our conversation, where it took every ounce of self-control to step away from her, I took a minute to myself in the garden shed and waited for my flagpole to disappear before making my rounds at each table stationed around the large rooftop garden.

It was manual labor, hefting heavy bags of soil and pots of various sizes, and then answering questions people may have or directing them to Millie.

A thin layer of sweat coats my skin but when I stand to the side and look at her, watching her bright smile and calming patience as she bids her students goodbye before they filter out of the garden. I can’t help but smile, my cavernous chest flooding with light and warmth.

The afternoon sunlight peeks out from behind the clouds, the rays bathing her in a warm glow, and the traitorous heart of mine jumps and leaps.

This afternoon is a glimpse of what life could be like if we were just a normal man and woman, without the shackles associated with my family name and the forbidden nature of our relationship between us.

But we don’t live in a land of what-if and could-be. The kiss that day at the office should’ve never happened.

We can never happen.

I need to tell her that, to tell her not to put her hopes in me.

The crowd thins out and the only folks left are the workers, all diligently cleaning up the space. I walk up to Millie, who is now fiddling with the supplies on her table.

She smiles as I approach her, her beautiful eyes lighting up, but whatever is showing on my face causes the joy to dim in her expression.

I sigh. “Millie, the other day in the office—”

“Tell me, why did you carry my scarf with you that first day in class?”

I freeze, my mind thinking back to that first day when my lungs forgot how to breathe in her presence, when she picked up my things from the floor.

I can’t give her myself, but I want to tell her the truth.

“It was a reminder of you. A softness I don’t deserve in my life.”

When I left LA, I couldn’t forget her but I couldn’t go to her. And so, instead, I’d resigned myself to carrying around her gift for me, her handmade scarf, despite what she told me. Even to my untrained eye, the varying stitches and the uneven widths were obvious.

My fingers would touch the softness in the dark moments, when the pressures of life felt too heavy, and I’d imagine it was a caress from her. And on the frigid winter days, I’d curl it around my neck when I braved the snow, and my heart would feel a little less lonely.

Her eyes soften. “You deserve a lot more than you give yourself credit for,” she whispers. Her lips curve into a sad smile.

“Do you know my favorite flower is the pasque flower?” She stacks seed packets into an orderly pile. “It blooms in the early spring when the environment is still recovering from the harsh winter. It may look delicate with its thin, lavender petals and gold stamen, but it’s strong. A fighter. Flourishes in the middle of hardship. They say the flower symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings.”

Her voice is passionate and strong. Just like her. A fighter, as she said. My fingers clench the clay pot in front of me. Anything to stop me from touching her.

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