Page 6 of Keeping Mr. Sweet

Those supple, pale lips part under my fingers and her tongue darts out to touch the tips of my digits. Sensation ricochets through me from that tiny bit of contact. “Make me good, Sam. I missed you.”

“Fuck me,” I whisper hoarsely. I used to want to hear those words from her. Used to lay awake at night just hoping. I was only kidding myself. I knew it. Yet I couldn’t seem to stop.

“Please.” Her hands move to the hem of my shirt, bunching the material, trying to push it up as she surges up on tiptoe to kiss me.

“No. I’m not doing this with you.” I adjust my hold on her, so I can set her an arm’s length away from me. When I imagined doing anything to get Ashleigh Durum back in my bed it wasn’t fucking a wasted girl who’s in the middle of a meltdown over a porn video.

“You’re too good for me now? Is that it?” she slurs. “With your restaurant and your life all sorted?” She unzips her sweater and pushes it off one shoulder. I can’t tell if she’s trying unsuccessfully to strip because she’s drunk, or flirting with me by flashing bare skin. Maybe both. She rips out of my hold so that she can get it all the way off. Drops it to the floor. “Can’t handle the idea that the world’s been between my legs? You’ve given up on me too, Sam?”

“That’s not it.” I clench my jaw.

“You’re worried I’m too dirty for you to touch now? Is that it? You think I caught something? We used condoms. I got checked after…It was weeks ago. But I never thought they taped it. Not until it was already everywhere.” She grimaces. “Ever regret something the minute it’s over?”

More than I care to admit.

“I didn’t know they were going to do this. Otherwise I would never.” She flaps her hands in front of her then reaches for the hem of her T-shirt. “Doesn’t matter. I’m clean. You don’t have to worry about catching anything from me.”

“You’re being unreasonable.” I grip her hand to keep her from lifting the material.

“Am I?” She sticks her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. It doesn’t suit her.

“Yes, Ash.” I drop her hand now that she’s lost focus on stripping out of her clothes. This game is played out, and I’m not the same man who told myself I was the idiot for wanting anything from a girl who was so young she barely knew herself. “Look, maybe it would be best if—”

“I’ve made it so even you don’t want to be around me,” she blurts out as she brings her curled fist to her mouth. Her skin becomes almost translucent under her tan, and she makes a painful sound in the back of her throat.

“Damn it, Ash,” I bark, grinding my palm into my hair. “You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” She focuses those gorgeous eyes on me, mischief flickering to life in them. She presses white teeth into that pale bottom lip as she walks toward me, drawing her fingers down her chest between her breasts to draw my eye. “Show me you still care, Sam. I need you to show me that you mean it. I need to feel it.”

Damn, she affects me just as she always has. Dragging her to bed would still be so easy. And fucking her…The need to have her starts in my blood, works its way along my spine, and makes me hard. I push the instinct away. Suck it up through my lungs and push it out through my lips on a breath. I can’t do it. Not this time. I grab her arms, try to get her focused on my mouth instead of my shirt that she’s wearing. “I’m not going to be your quick fix. I’m not going to be responsible for you feeling even shittier tomorrow. I can’t do this, Ash.”

“You don’t know what I need,” she retorts. “I knew I was wrong to come to you, to think you could still care.”

“Don’t tell me I don’t care.” I spin her around and wrap both arms around her, trapping her against me. My lips skim the side of her throat. “But this isn’t a game we play, you hear me? Not anymore.”

Wriggling and writhing against me she tries to get free until she’s panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Sinking into my hold, she moans. “You always did like coming at me from behind.”

Like I don’t know the difference between her exaggerating and the real thing. Like I don’t remember every damn sound she makes. Anticipate them with every fiber of my being. Used to. Feels like an eon ago since the last time we got that close. Another soft sound as her head slides across my chest, her hair getting caught under my arm and fanning across my pecs.

Could someone please tell me why it doesn’t get any easier to be this close to her? Why it becomes difficult to breathe when her hair smells like rainwater and limes, and the overhead lights hit it just right so that it shines? And why is it when she’s not fighting me I don’t want to let go?

I slip an arm behind her knees and scoop her up. I thought she was better. I thought she had her head on straight these days. Kissing the top of her head, I carry her up the stairs like it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to do. But it shouldn’t be.

It’s not supposed to be like this. We’re not meant to do this to each other anymore, and I don’t know how to make it stop. As long as she keeps coming back, I can’t move on and trying to is killing me.

***

Five years ago

Christ. I yank at the knot in my black tie as I walk out of the room where everyone’s gathered. Can’t stand much more of this bullshit. It’s a who’s who of L. A.’s finest in there. Or at least skinniest. Sasha looks like a coat hanger for widow’s fashion. If that’s a thing. It probably is with this bunch. She swans from person to person, dabbing her eyes and making a scene out of her grief. I doubt anyone here gives a shit about dad.

Uncle Caleb left straight after the funeral, and Aunt Lucy sent her condolences, but the rest of this crowd is Sasha’s people. I duck left and make my way to his study where dad keeps the good stuff. Keptthe good stuff, I guess.

I close the door behind me. It’s so quiet in here without him, even with the muffled noises from other parts of the house. He’s supposed to be here, sitting in the leather chair behind the desk. I can practically see him lift his head and then reach up to remove his glasses. He opens the top drawer and pulls out a cloth that he uses to wipe the lenses with, then he smiles. “Pour us a drink, will you, Sam.”

I trudge across to the cart that holds his collection of spirits. Pick up a couple glasses from the antique silver tray embossed with his and Sasha’s initials and turn them right way up.

“The Ladyburn.” he says, clear as if he really is behind that desk.

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