Page 600 of Rock Me All Night
Tempting. Incredibly tempting. I take a step backwards. School first. Then sex. "I have to get my book."
Pete nods then his attention turns back to his bass. Music fills the hallway. It's familiar. Something off one of the Sinful Serenade albums.
I close my eyes and try to place the song. It's not one of the singles. I listen to enough alternative rock radio to recognize those.
The answer doesn't come. My eyes open and catch his. There's all this affection in his deep brown eyes.
Last night, I told him I cared about him. He hasn't said anything. Hasn't responded.
My heart aches. How the hell am I supposed to stomach all these feelings? I want to talk, to tell him how much Dad's non-response is weighing on me.
But not if he's going to keep running off.
His eyes turn towards me. He cocks a brow. "You okay?"
Yes, great. The lie forms on my tongue. I swallow it down. I like being honest with him.
I shake my head.
He slides out of his shoulder strap, sets his instrument in its stand, and kneels in front of me.
Pete pulls me out of the chair so I'm kneeling next to him. His fingers brush my chin and jaw. He brushes stray hairs behind my ears, his eyes fixed on mine.
"Please don't pretend you care about me," I say.
"Do you really think I'm pretending?" He pulls me into his lap as he sits cross-legged.
I shift so I'm straddling him. I stare into his eyes. Run my fingers through his short hair. He smells good. Like soap and shampoo.
The expression in his deep, brown eyes is earnest. He does care about me.
That makes this harder.
My chest heaves as I inhale. I can't tell him how I have feelings for him. Not yet.
"You're going to explode, keeping everything bottled up." He pulls me closer. "Talk to me."
"Don't you do the same thing?"
"I have music. You don't have anything."
He looks up at me, brushes my hair from my eyes. "I want to know you. The person you want to be."
The words jump into my throat. He's warm. He's comforting. I really do believe he cares about me.
I squeeze my inner thighs against his hips, settling onto his body. "Even the ugly things?"
"We all have ugly things in our past."
"Yeah, but you turned yours into something beautiful." I point to his tattoo, though it's covered by his jeans. "And your music too. You make your pain so beautiful."
"No." He stares back at me. "The pain is ugly. Dealing with it is the beautiful thing."
"You sound like a self-help book."
He pulls me closer. "Tell me anyway."
I want to tell him. I really do. It's not just that I want this off my chest. I want Pete knowing me. The ugly parts too.
