Page 85 of It Happened on a Sunday
That startles a laugh out of her. “Oh, yeah? And why is that?”
“Because that’s allIwant. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. You, to be in this—really in it—with me.”
Chapter 37
Sloane
Sly’s words hang between us, a mixture of awe and satisfaction turning his face into something I know I’ll dream about later. His eyes have gone coffee brown, and his chest rises and falls like he just ran the entire length of a football field.
And I’m enjoying every second of it. It’s a heady thing, being looked at like that by a man I actuallywant.
Sly’s not the first person to look at me with that kind of need—he’s not even the first one to do it tonight. But heisthe only one who matters. The only one I’m looking back at in exactly the same way.
“Well then, it’s your move, corazón,” I tell him in a lightly mocking tone. Because I need to say something—anything—to make it seem like I’ve got control of myself, if not the actual situation.
It’s not true, but like everything else in my life, I can pretend until it is.
Maybe.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, his voice somehow reverent and wrecked at the same time.
“That’s not much of a move,” I tell him with a raised brow.
“No move,” he agrees. “Just the truth. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
Normally, that compliment doesn’t do anything for me—a lot of people have told me I’m beautiful through the years, and it seems silly to get all worked up over something I have no control over, something that’s more about genetics and good makeup than anything I’ve chosen.
But the way Sly says it, all joy and light, makes my toes tingle and my heart trip over itself.
“I feel the same way about you,” I answer before I can think better of it.
“And here I thought I was supposed to be rugged and handsome?” He raises an eyebrow.
I snort. “Says who?”
“No idea.” He grins. “I think I read it in aGQarticle once.”
I laugh, and the tension between us loosens just enough that I can breathe normally. At least until he reaches up to brush that stubborn curl out of his eyes and I get sidetracked by his hands.
Thosehands. The ones that held me so carefully this afternoon. That made me tremble even as they made me feel safe.
“I like your hands,” I blurt out. Jesus.What is wrong with me?It’s like my hormones have overridden every other cell in my body—including my brain cells.
“These old things?” He holds one up for me to see the cuts and callouses on his broad palm and long fingers. “You’re so soft, it feels wrong to touch you with them.”
“But I want you to touch me.” The words pour out, a secret my voice—like my body—can’t help but tell. “I like how strong they are and how gentle you are when you touch me with them.”
He pauses for a moment, and this time when he speaks his voice drips like honey and aches like truth—slow, overwhelming, devastating. “I’ll always be gentle when you need me to be.”
Something in me splinters even more. The piece that still isn’t used to being handled like I’m precious instead of broken. Like I’m allowed to want softness and not be ashamed of it.
It’s a lot—maybe too much for me to handle right now—so I whisper, “Ditto,” just to watch him light up.
I’m not disappointed. Sly laughs, soft and intimate. His brown eyes are warm as they search my face. “So there it is,” he says. “Whatever happens, we’ll be careful with each other, Sloane.”
I love the way he calls me his heart. But I love even more the way he calls me Sloane when he thinks what we’re talking about is important.
“I—” My voice breaks as his words engulf me. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sly. Wherever this goes, whatever happens, I don’t want to hurt you.”
