Page 20 of Light Up The Night
It is a dangerous thought, however. For one thing, I would never want to stop listening to it. And for another, I am acutely aware that a man like Riley Crowe is simply never going to want such intimacy with me. It is a fate to which I have long since resigned myself.
That final thought is sobering enough that I drop my hand and my eyes, stepping back. "I thank you for that, Riley."
Another of those soft snorts which I am beginning to realize can mean a wide variety of things. When I bring my eyes up to his face, his expression is too complicated for me to fathom.
"What does that laugh mean, please?" I ask.
"You. You are just too fuckin' much, girl. I can't with you."
It feels as if a rush of acid has filled my stomach. "I am aware that I am too much for most people. You needn't point it out."
Strong, rough, gentle hands frame my face. "Cadence, again, that isnotwhat I was saying."
I am frozen in place, unable to move, to breathe, to do anything with the feel of his hands on my face—they have the texture of a cinderblock against my cheeks, and despite the gentility of his touch, I sense the incredible strength in them.
It is terrifying, overwhelming, mystifying, and deeply troubling how my body responds to his touch. My lungs are blocks of ice. My stomach is a lepidopterarium. My hands clench into fists at my sides, and my eyes are wide and fixed on his too-handsome face, as if I could read there the answer to my question:Why is this impossibly handsome and utterly confusing man touching me this way?
Why do my mammary glands feel so tight, so hard, so wickedly sensitive inside the dratted, awful, constrictive prison of my brassiere?
Why, above all, does my female sexual organ feel so…uncomfortably hot and damp?
Before my brain can supply the medical answer, which I am quite certain I do not wish to know, as it will do me no good, I retreat from him, taking two decisive steps backward, out of his reach. "You should have your shower, Riley."
He glances at his hands, for some reason, and then nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm going. Be out in a minute."
I am obviously mistaken, but it almost seems as if he is disappointed that I took those steps out of his reach. But that is patently ridiculous. I am not now and have never been and likely never will be the object ofanyone’sphysical desire, least of all a man like Riley.
No, it simply would not do to allow myself to germinate the seed of hope his innocently-meant touch inadvertently planted.
Instead of allowing my imagination to wander to the illicit, inappropriate, and sinful place of Riley in the shower, I turn my mental faculties to the much more important—and solvable—problem of my trip to Sudan.
Yet instead of considering solutions, my attention continually and frustratingly wanders back to his chest under my hand, and the searing bolt of electricity I felt shock my entire system when I touched him.
I simplymustleave this place—this town, this home, and this man. I must. Before I become attached to someone who will not, cannot return that attachment.
Again.
Before I am heartbroken.
Again.
Chapter 4
RILEY
Iabsolutely donotunderstand Cadence Creswell at fucking all.
She's gorgeous and doesn't seem to have the first fucking clue that she is. And unless she's lying—which I'm 99.99% sure she isn't—she's crazy, crazy smart, accomplished, and talented. But she misunderstands the simplest things, misinterprets the most obvious statements or gestures. She uses words I've never heard—not that that in itself is hard, considering my formal education stopped at seventeen and I didn’t exactly spend my time in prison reading. She acts so shy, so unsure of herself, and seems unable to recognize and/or believe my attraction to her, even when plainly stated.
I brush my teeth While the water is getting hot—replacing the twenty-year old water heater with a tankless one is high on my to-do list. I consider shaving, but I hate shaving and decide against it. Once in the shower, I rush through getting clean. Mainly because if I let myself linger, my attention will wander to Cadence.
To the brief, tantalizing glimpse of her naked body when I first opened the door. Any enjoyment of that quick look waseradicated when I saw her sheer terror as she huddled on the floor between my bed and the wall, shaking, hyperventilating.
But now, my idiot caveman brain keeps summoning that fragment of wonder—pale, creamy skin, the long curve of spine to buttock to thigh. The plump curve of her breast, mostly hidden by her arm.
Fuck.
I twist the knob until the water runs cold, spluttering and gasping as I race through washing and conditioning my hair and scrubbing my body clean.
