Page 43 of Stirring Up Love
He’d been so caught up in his own issues he’d never stopped to question why her family business had skipped a generation.
“My mom died when I was in kindergarten,” she said, confirming his suspicion. The signs he’d completely missed, blinded by his own baggage. “A year later, my father abandoned me and my sister. Started a new family. Calling him a ‘sperm donor’ would be an insult to families everywhere. But my grandparents stepped up and took over for their worthless excuse for a son. They raised us like their own kids. Never made us feel like a burden or an inconvenience or anything less than cherished.”
She licked her lips. “So forgive me for not being certain I’d be up for parenthood. If I decide to raise a child, I sure as heck want to make sure I’m ready for a lifelong commitment.”
“I’m sorry.” The words didn’t touch his sorrow for her. On impulse, he clasped her hand, and she didn’t pull away. He should’ve recognized the smoke screens she put up, the first line of defense of the wounded and scarred.
“Don’t be,” she said. “I only told you because I’m sick of your condemnation. But I don’t want your pity either.”
He swept his thumb along the side of her palm. “It’s not pity.”
“Then what is it?”
Understanding. A barrier between them slipping away. “A wake-up call,” he said, really seeing her for the first time. She was a person trying to prove her worth in the face of loss and abandonment, just like him. A person he’d spent months pushing away, when all he’d ever wanted to do was pull her close, a decision that was looking more idiotic by the second.
“If it’s not pity, then why are you making a face that says you want to tuck me under your chin and pat my back?”
Probably for the best that his real thoughts weren’t reflected on his face, because that gesture sounded way more tame than the things he’d like to do to Simone. Desire amplified now that she’d broken the barrier and let him in. Nearly irresistible now that he’d touched her.
“Am I?”
“You are.” That was interesting, because judging by her unfocused gaze and parted lips, she kind of didn’t seem to hate it. “And you’re holding my hand. Which is super weird.”
“Is it?” It was, given their history. But she hadn’t pulled away. In fact, her fingers tightened around his. It was weird, but also kind of nice, to be touching her.
Better than nice.
“I mean ...” She slid the tips of her fingers along his palm.Oh.His eyes squeezed shut. “It’s different.”
“Should I stop, then?” He breathed out the question. Opened his eyes.
“Stop what?”
“Touching you. Your hand.”
She shook her head. “Not unless you want to.”
He absolutely did not want to let go of her. If anything ...
He licked his lips, and her eyes darted down. Lingered.
“Finn?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you planning to kiss me?”
He wasn’t planning on anything, right now. All coherent thoughts had fled, leaving him abuzz with desire. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
“Yes.” Her voice set him aflame like a breath to coals. “Please.”
That word. The first time he’d heard her use it, so courteous compared to her usual bluntness, and it was his undoing. He leaned across the gearshift and slanted his mouth against hers. Her lips were so soft. So indulgently plump. Pliant and yielding. Unexpected.
She let go of his hand, and he pulled back, broke the kiss. Had she changed her mind? But she grabbed his shoulder, tugging him close. Slipped her fingers into the hair at the back of his skull, slotted her mouth against his, and oh. Her tongue was so slick, so wet. He gripped the console to ground himself, but then her hand dropped to his thigh, squeezed, and he was lost.
He let himself fall headlong into her heat, sliding his hand along her rib cage. Molding against her, drawing her closer. She moaned, deep, and it pierced him, sharp. His hand slid down over the small swell of her hips to the hem of her dress, the silky smoothness of her thigh, and holy crap, they were at pump two at a desert gas station.
He pulled back, breathless. “This is a bad idea.”
