Page 53 of Love Me Tomorrow

I watch as Owen’s thumb finds my skittering pulse on the inside of my wrist. The heat of him, the slight pressure . . . I close my eyes just as he demands, “Why?”

Swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat, I set the sketchbook down. “We both know why.”

I sense his solid presence behind me a second before I feel his touch all over. And I’m talkingall over.His chest collides with my shoulder blades and his thighs brush the backs of my legs and then he takes it one step further by arrogantly pinning my captured hand to the desk. Does the same with the other, locking me in place.

Caging me between the desk and his muscular frame.

Oh, my God.

My nails scrape the desk as he rasps, “Tell me anyway, Rose.” The words are whispered against the shell of my ear, his breath rustling my hair. An intoxicating shiver works its way down my spine. “Why.”

Shoulders shuddering at his close proximity, my head lolls forward.

We’re crossing so many boundaries here, tromping over them like they’ve never even existed. Maybe for him, they’ve always been a negligible issue, but for me . . .

How many times have I imagined a scenario just like this one? With him taking me exactly as he wants, heedless of the consequences? Too damn many to confess.

It was wrong of me. I knew that then, even as I know it now. Amelie is my sister, my best friend, the one person I’ll protect above all else. But that didn’t stop the fantasies of Owen from storming my head, almost right from the start.

I imagined his mouth crashing down on mine, his fingers tracing the line of my underwear before pushing aside the fabric to touch mejust there, his cock bobbing against his firm stomach when he pushed me to my knees.

Crushing on Owen Harvey when he was dating my sister was the worst kind of hell.

But wishing that he’d choose me over her felt like the worst kind of sin.

And when they broke up—the honest-to-God most civil, mostunemotionalbreak up in the history of breakups—Dad swooped in to remind me that getting together with my sister’s ex-boyfriend wasnotin the plans.

Firm, masculine lips land on my sensitive skin, ripping me from my thoughts, and boldly kiss the hollow curve where my neck and shoulder meet. A second kiss follows, a few inches north. Another shudder of want tears through me, the chasm betweendoanddo notgrowing ever further apart.

“Answer the question,” comes his guttural demand.

God help me, but I do.

“You would have let it go,” I whisper, tilting my head to the side in a wordless command forGive me more. “Just like that, you would have let it go. Because that’s who you are, Owen. You’re tough and stoic and you can pretend all you want that you didn’t care about someone walking away with pieces of your soul, but you did. Youdo. I refused to let that happen.”

His mouth coasts over my skin at a languid pace that leaves my legs feeling like Jell-O. Under the weight of his hands, my palms strain firmly against the desk to keep myself from toppling over like Humpty Dumpty on his wall.

As though wanting to push me to the brink of insanity, Owen nips my skin. “You must have paid a real pretty penny for it.”

Oh, you know, just over eleven thousand dollars.

Ironic how I balked at spending five-figures on a trip to Machu Picchu but didn’t bat an eye when it came to shelling out a crazy amount of money for Owen. Did I cringe when I wrote the check? Maybe a little.

But still . . . “It was worth it.”

You’re worth it.

As if hearing what I’ve left unspoken, his hand squeezes mine, splaying my fingers wide so he can interlace them with his. I swear I can feel the rapid pace of his heart like a hammer against my back. “Fuck, Savannah,” he says, his breath hot on my skin, “fuck.You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Most people would say thank you.”

I hear him swallow tightly. “Seems inadequate, considering the price tag.”

“We can say it together, if it helps. On the count of three.”

He lets out a deep, gravel-pitched chuckle. “So much sass.” A small, telling pause. Then, softly, “Thank you.”

Only, he has no idea that he shouldn’t be thanking me at all. I may have written the check, but there’s a solid reason it’s taken me three days to show up here with the sketchbook. America’s sweetheart is no angel.

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