Page 21 of I Almost Do

Yes, it’s a long time. But we need it.

I have a very driven personality. I focus my energy on my career. Sometimes I barely sleep when I’m in pursuit of a goal. I don't know what kind of monster I'd become if I turned that energy on a person.

My father claimed he loved my mother. But it was obsession. Violent obsession.

I have to practice maintaining emotional distance with Clarissa. In the past, I’ve just avoided all relationships. That’s not an option with her. So by the time we have sex, she has to be so firmly established as a friend that it’s nothing more than an act of physical relief. There can’t be passion.

Twenty-five is the sensible choice. It’s when she takes over all of her own finances. I can’t be in charge of her assets and sleep with her. It feels too much like I’m controlling her. She needs money, and Ihaveall her money.

I’m only just now thinking about how warped that is. How easily I could trap her and control her.

And Clarissa herself needs to gain some autonomy. The revelation that bodyguards have watched and controlled her even after she entered adulthood has left me uneasy.

She turns back, wobbly on her feet, and her jaw drops. It took her a moment to process my words. To do the math in her head. Her eyes are like saucers. “Twenty-five!” she squeals. “Are you crazy? Nobody waits to have sex until they’re twenty-five!”

I shrug as if the idea of waiting five years doesn't sound like hell to me too. "Twenty-five is when I no longer control any of your finances. You'll be independent then. There's a power imbalance between us right now. It's not fair to you, and you'd hate me for it later."

"I would not," she says, scowling, words overenunciated in that way drunk people the world over do when they're trying to sound sober.

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

She moves into me and runs her hands up my chest to rest on my shoulders. Her warm body presses against mine. My hands land on her waist. I know she's only this bold because she's completely soused. Tequila, if I can trust my nose.

Her eyes glitter. "Kiss me on my wedding day, James. Just a kiss."

Tenderness pangs in my chest—along with a dose of guilt. When she says she'll never forget that I didn't kiss her on our wedding day, I believe her.

It can't hurt to kiss her. Not really.

A kiss on your wedding day is symbolic of a promise. Of a future. And I do plan to give her a future.

I cradle the back of her head with my hand and kiss my wife.

8

Say You Won't Let Go

Clarissa

James kisses like a god. This kiss is the kind I've read about in romance novels and thought were just fiction. I didn't believe anything like this existed in the real world, only in some writer's imagination.

My body doesn't quite feel like my own. And while some of that is on the tequila, most of it is the wild rush of sensation from James's mouth on mine.

His lips are firm but soft. His tongue moves against mine. And I feel it not just where he's touching me but inside, down low, in a spiral of heat and tension that makes me want to squirm and push closer to him.

He nips my bottom lip and pulls on it lightly with his teeth, exactly like I did to him downstairs. And now I realize why he looked so shocked—because the sensation is delicious.

I give an involuntary cry of pleasure, arching my back to press my body against his. His erection pushes against my belly, and a touch of nervous anticipation joins the spiral of heat inside me.

He pulls back, just enough to meet my gaze with eyes of blue flame. I slide my hand down to his chest, where his heart thunders under my palm.

My breathing is awful. I sound like I've just sprinted a mile uphill. I whimper and try to pull him back down for another kiss, but he stops me with that hand on my head. It's probably for the best, because the room has begun spinning around me. I don't feel well at all. I need him to keep me anchored.

He drops his forehead to mine and breathes, slow and deep. Reaching up, he presses the hand I have on his chest harder against his heart, his other hand holding my head to his. I feel the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his breaths beneath my palm, his pulse calming. After a moment, I mirror him. Breathing in when he does. Letting it out slowly. We stand that way for long moments.

Eventually, he pulls away. Takes his hands off me. Steps back.

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