Page 87 of Truck Stop Tempest

Yes. Kissme,please, I wanted to beg. Instead, I turned in his arms and cupped his face. “Tell me something I don’t know about you. Something big.”

Angry eyes searched mine, begging me to take my question back. Aida’s words played on repeat in my head. He needs to break before he can heal. I couldn’t back down.

His lids slammed shut, then opened, gaze focused over my shoulder.

“Please,” I whispered. “One thing so I can kiss you.” I inched closer. “I need to kiss you.”

I feared he would pull away. Instead, on a deep inhale, he cupped the back of my neck, squeezing tight, like he was afraid I’d run if he didn’t hold me in place. His strong jaw tensed. “I was molested by my priest when I was a child.” He sucked in a sharp breath. Blew it out. “You wanted to know why I don’t like church. That’s why.”

Oh, God. Oh. God. No wonder he’d wanted to kill my father. I struggled to keep my tears at bay. Sympathy was the last thing he needed. I rose high on my toes, pulled his face down to mine, and brushed my lips in a soft stroke against his mouth, savoring the fullness, the scratch of his stubble, inviting him to take the lead.

He didn’t kiss me back, though. His grip tightened and he only stared, working his jaw, arms trembling. He wanted to say more. To share his secrets. He wanted us, his internal battle evident in the depth of his glare, the wariness, the pain.

Tito had given enough for one day. I wouldn’t push further.

I kissed him again, a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”

His face crumpled.

My heart bled, but I walked away and let myself into his car.

Shoulders hunched, he stared at the water. I waited, palms sweaty, pulse racing.

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then turned my way. When our eyes met, he smirked and shook his head, all vulnerability gone.

We didn’t talk on the drive home. Thrasher metal blasted through the speakers, stifling any chance for conversation. I was okay with that. He’d given what I’d asked, a gesture that meant everything. A small victory. A baby step forward.

When we reached the house, he walked me down the steps. I slid the key into the lock, then turned to face my beast.

Saying goodbye sucked. I wanted to invite him in. I wanted to tear at his clothes and lose myself in the dips and valleys of his physique. Iwant. Iwant. I wanted him. All of him. Not just his body. His troubles, too. And that was the very reason I couldn’t act on my selfish urges.

“Thank you for driving me home,” I mumbled.

He lifted a hand to my cheek and brushed his knuckles across my skin. His touch, so soft and tender, reached every unreachable inch of my body. I closed my eyes, absorbing the sensation, welcoming the ache, inhaling his scent, and holding it in my lungs, greedy for more.

When I looked up, he was staring at my mouth, eyes tortured, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. My entire body flooded with heat. The thump, thump, thump in my chest moved to my abdomen, then lower.

“I miss you so goddamn much,” he rasped, voice thick and sticky.

In a moment of weakness, I blurted, “I wouldn’t mind if you kissed me again.”

A sad smile graced his face. “No. Not until I’ve earned it.”

God, my soul. My soul. It ached. It bled. What was I doing? To him. To us?

We held each other, his cheek on my head, my ear to his chest, his heartbeat steady and strong. With a sigh, he let me go. “Lock the door behind you.”

“I will.”

“Goodnight, Bunny.” He took a slow step back.

Why did saying goodbye feel so wrong? “Tito.”

“Yeah?” Another reluctant step.

“Are you going for a run in the morning?”

“Always do.”

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