Page 59 of here

“Mhm.” My hands find her legs again, thumbs sneaking under the hem of her dress. “So, about that dessert…”

She smacks my hand. “Just get me home, Milton.”

“Not yet.” I press my lips to her neck, tasting salt and expensive perfume. “Your mother’s expecting us back for dessert, remember?”

“I can’t.” Her pulse jumps under my tongue.

“One bite. That’s all.”

“Brandon.”

“I’ll be right here.” Close enough to catch her if she falls. Not that I’d ever say that out loud. “And then we leave. Deal?”

“Please don’t make me do this.”

A blatant fear reflects in her eyes. It’s the same look I’ve seen a hundred times before. The one that says she’s about to bolt, to run from anything that might make her feel something real or out of control.

“Naomi…” I soften my voice. “You can do this.”

She shakes her head, a single tear falling down her cheek. “Please don’t make me.”

Fuck. I can’t stand seeing her like this. All broken and scared and so goddamn fragile. It’s like looking in a mirror, seeing all the parts of myself I try to hide.

I whirl her around, tugging her head beneath my chin and cocooning her in my arms. She stiffens and then melts into me, burying her face in my chest.

That’s new.

Did making her come really open her up? Is that the only way she’s going to let me in? Pun intended.

“Okay.” I place a kiss to the top of her head. “Okay, cupcake. We’ll go.”

“Really?”

“Fuck dessert.”

A watery laugh escapes her, and she swipes at her cheeks. “My mother’s going to be pissed.”

“I’ll deal with it.” I shrug, taking her hand in mine.

She stares at our intertwined fingers, something unreadable flickering across her face.

I would deal with everything if she let me.

“Come on.” I pull her towards the door, ignoring the way warmth spreads through my chest. “Let’s get out of here before your mother comes back and breaks down the door.”

That earns me another laugh.

We’re almost at the front door when Lydia’s voice stops us.

“Leaving so soon?” she asks.

I turn, keeping Naomi’s hand in mine. “Dinner reservations.” The lie rolls off my tongue. “Thought I mentioned it earlier.”

Lydia stands at the end of the hall, arms crossed, perfectly manicured nails tapping against her forearm. “You did.”

I flash her a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.

Lydia knows I’m full of shit, but calling me out means admitting she knows what’s really going on. And that would mean acknowledging her daughter’s… issue. Can’t have that ruining her perfect family image.

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