Page 74 of It Happened on a Sunday
I sigh against his lips, and his hand slides down over the slope of my waist to rest just above my hip. The weight of it there makes me shiver. I’m not cold, but it feels good to have him there. Like he’s holding me together and if he lets go now, all the broken pieces might scatter.
But he doesn’t let go. He holds on, even as he lets me lead. And with each second that passes, the heat inside me burns brighter. Cuts sharper.
I press against him, hands tugging at his hair, teeth nipping at his mouth, body straining to get closer, closer, closer. It’s only when I whimper low in my throat—a sound so soft it gets lost in the crash of the cosmos around us—that he pulls away.
“No!” I clutch at him, half afraid that if I let him go I’ll never feel like this again.
His touch turns from scorching to soothing in a second, his fingers dancing up and down my spine even as his other hand rubs gentle circles on my hip. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, his breath a gentle benediction on my skin.
I nod and take a series of deep, trembling breaths. And as I finally come back to myself, I remember where we are and why one kiss is all we can share.
“You okay?” he asks, forehead pressed to mine as the movie crescendos around us.
“Yes. No.” The words come out quiet and bewildered. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.” He grounds me with his voice and the gentle stroke of his thumb against the back of my neck. “We’ll figure it out.”
He sits back as the lights come up around us, and I look at him, this man who holds only tenderness in hands big enough to destroy.
Who brings me stars and sweetness and space to be.
Who tells me everything is going to be okay.
For the first time in a very long time, I want to believe he’s right.
Chapter 33
Sly
“You don’t have to wait with me,” Sloane says about twenty minutes after we get to the corner where we’re supposed to meet Marco. She’s got a concert to get to, and I have a team meeting—one it’s beginning to look increasingly unlikely I’m going to make.
Not that I’m about to tell Sloane that. Sure, she can take care of herself, but with the press whipping people into a fervor over the two of us, there’s no way I’m going to leave her on a street corner without a bodyguard in sight. Safety in numbers is a thing for a reason.
“I’m in no hurry, corazón. Besides, the later Marco is, the more time I get to spend with you.”
I expect her to roll her eyes or at least scoff at what I said. But instead, her cheeks turn a soft pink and her gaze snags on mine as she softly replies, “I like it when you call me that.”
“I like it, too,” I tell her. I reach out to stroke her cheek but stop before I connect. I don’t think anyone is paying attention to us right now—we are loitering in the doorway of a closed store to be more inconspicuous—but this is L.A., and people are everywhere, especially on Hillhurst.
We gave them that kiss at the Willow and the run down the hill earlier today, but the rest of this afternoon has belonged to us. Is it so wrong that I want to keep it that way for a little while longer?
Wherever we go from here—and I hope it’s somewhere, I really do—our relationship is going to be fodder for press all over the country. All over the world. I just want to give this one momentto Sloane. To us. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
At the same time, though, I want her to know where I stand—and just maybe figure out where she stands as well. So, under the shelter of the shop’s canopy, I take her hand. “Will you text me tonight after the concert?”
“It’ll be late. Don’t you athletes need your beauty sleep?”
“I’m beautiful enough,” I tell her dryly. “I’d rather hear how your concert went and that you made it back to the hotel safely.”
“Fair enough.” She smiles as she moves just a little bit closer. “Thank you for our date.”
“Thank you for trusting me,” I say, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to leave it at that.
I want to pull her into my arms so badly, want to hold her and comfort her and take comfort from her as well. I’m still reeling from what she told me, from what she went through, and I just want to feel her in my arms. Just want to feel her safe and strong and okay.
I settle for reaching a hand out for hers. She takes it and squeezes tightly, like the contact is as important—as necessary—to her as it is to me.
“I—” I start, but before I can finish, a black SUV pulls up to the curb in front of us. The same security guy as earlier gets out.
