Page 86 of Maid of Dishonor

And I’m not sure, in all my life, that I have ever felt this loved. Thischerished. And maybe it’s a stereotype, or maybe it’s just something I’ve seen in the movies, but for a second I feel guilty. Aren’t I supposed to be makingherfeel like this? Isn’t this experience supposed to be hers? Isn’t she the one who’s supposed to be worshipped this way?

I’ll give her that, I vow to myself. Every second of every day, I will do my best to make her feel exactly the way I feel now: like no one in the world has ever been this adored.

When Sam’s focus finally goes to my mouth, I’m a goner. I shudder as she drags one thumb over my lower lip; my eyes flutter closed as she does the same with the top. I know she can feel each unsteady breath as her fingers hover there, but I’m far past caring. There’s no embarrassment, no shame. Right now, at this moment in time, I simplyexist.

And when Sam leans closer—slowly,achinglyslowly—I am utterly done for.

Her lips brush softly over mine—once, then twice. She doesn’t linger, doesn’t deepen the kiss; it really is just the passing of her lips over mine, our breaths tangled, our hearts beating in tandem.

But that touch—that meeting—it’s profound.

It is every little look, every little touch, every little grin. Every sparkle of her eyes, every sunshine smile.

It is everything.

And when she kisses me again, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders, it only gets better. Her lips are soft and coaxing against mine, tentative at first, andsweet—so sweet. SoSam. I don’t deepen the kiss until she initiates it, but it’s worth the wait, because she’s in a league of her own, every touch more electric, every feeling more heightened. I meant what I said earlier: every time I kiss her, it somehow gets better.

So it’s probably good when she pulls back. Her taste is addictive, but moving too fast could stop this relationship before it even really gets started. The risk isn’t worth it, no matter how incredible she feels.

“We should probably talk,” she says, leaning her head against my shoulder. Something sparks within me when I hear how hard she’s breathing, how affected she is by my touch, and I fight down the urge to find her lips again.

“Agreed,” I say.

“Okay. Well, let’s get it all out on the table, then. Not too long ago I was just ‘one of the guys,’ and the mereideaof me had you looking like you were going to hyperventilate.” Then, sounding more vulnerable, she adds, “You also told me point blank that you were never going to fall in love or get married. So…”

I sigh, because I made a mess of things with her. “It freaked me out. Falling in love, being open to all the bad stuff that can happen in relationships—it freaked me out.” I swallow uncomfortably. “I wish my reasons were better than that, Sam, but the truth is, they weren’t.” I take another deep breath, expelling it slowly as I try to find the words I need to explain. “I saw the difference in my dad when my mom died. I watched him change. After she passed, it was like he went from color to black and white. Do you know—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Do you know how much that terrified me? How much itstillterrifies me? Seeing him broken?”

The summer breeze carries my words away from me, and when Sam doesn’t respond, I can almost pretend she didn’t hear me speak at all—that my thoughts and feelings were simply whisked away before they ever reached her. The silence between us is heavy, and Sam’s body curled into mine is almost unnaturally still. My instinct is to speak again, but I stop myself; she needs a minute to think, to digest. It’s no big bombshell I’ve dropped on her, but it does still have a bearing on our relationship.

When I feel her draw in a deep breath, I steel myself for whatever she might say. Her voice is small, but her words are firm. “I want this with you, Carter. I’ve always wanted it. But if you’re going to have one foot out the door the whole time, I can’t do that.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No feet out the door. I’m in, baby. I’ll admit I had to get to this point, but…I’m all in. If you are,” I add hastily.

Please be all in, please be all in, please be—

Sam gives a snort of laughter, interrupting my mental chant, and it’s good to hear her sound more like herself. “I’m in,” she says. Then, her voice softer, she says, “All in.”

“Oh, good,” I say, relief flowing through me. I press a kiss to the side of her head, relaxing. My butt is starting to hurt despite the sleeping bag I’m sitting on, though, and soon it’s going to be completely dark, so I say, “Should we head out? The ground isn’t very comfortable.”

“Probably not,” she agrees conversationally. “But your girlfriend is sitting with you, so…”

A jolt of pleasure goes through me at that, and I grin at her. “You had that labelrighton hand.”

I can almost imagine I see her blush. “Well, am I wrong?”

“No,” I murmur, still smiling. I let myself drink her in, my gaze cataloguing every detail of her perfect face. I mean, it’s not like I don’t already have that face memorized, but I’ve rarely had the pleasure of looking at it from this close, and I’ve definitely never had an excuse to just sit and stare. Besides, she got her turn earlier.

“You’re really attractive,” she says to me, and with a jolt I realize that once again, she’s been studying me just as intently as I’m studying her. “Did you know that?”

I blink in surprise before smiling. “I wore this shirt because you always stare when I do,” I say, looking down at my white shirt. It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but I’m pretty sure this is the beginning of a no-holds-barred relationship, so I’ll most likely end up telling her everything anyway.

“Good call,” she says, nodding. “It’s one of my favorites. It makes your eyes look extra blue.” Then she glances down at her own outfit—yoga pants and my old t-shirt—and frowns.

I shake my head, because I can practically hear the thoughts in her mind, and she’s wrong.

“Don’t go there,” I say, tightening my arms around her waist. “You look good in anything. Your legs are gorgeous, and honestly”—a flush rises in my cheeks, and I clear my throat—“there aren’t many things more attractive than seeing you wear my clothes. So don’t worry.”

“Huh,” she says, digesting this. “I’ve heard that’s a thing, but I’ve never really asked. Why is that? Is it like a possessive thing?”

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