Page 23 of Played
“Since your wife passed, yes.”
“Yeah, I have.”
She glances sharply at me before just as quickly shifting her gaze away. By this time, we’ve reached our cars, and she slides her hand into her jean pocket and removes her keys.
Against my better judgment, I reach out toward her and cuff her wrist.Shit.I grind my teeth against the electric charge that seems to transfer from her skin to mine. It crackles up my arm, over my shoulders, and down my spine. I should let go of that slim wrist with the deceptively delicate bones, but I don’t. I almost ... can’t.
That’s fucking ridiculous.
And to prove that I can, that there’s nothing special about touching her, abouther, I force my fingers to straighten and drop her like her skin brands me.
Here’s where I should get my ass in my car and get the fuck up outta here. I apologized, did her a favor, and even had somewhat friendly drinks. Now we don’t ever have to see each other again. Definitely no need for more conversation—
“Why does it feel like that bothers you?” I press.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
The corners of her mouth pull down. “It doesn’t.”
“That ain’t what your face saying.” I continue to poke.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She gives me side-eye that I bet has been perfected on those brothers of hers. A sliver of amusement slides through me. Fucking with them might’ve been the most fun I’ve had in ... well, a while. “I was just curious in general. How did you ...? I mean, it wasn’t ...? Shit, I don’t know what I mean.”
“Yes, you do.” Any traces of humor fade as I stare down into her troubled expression. Those full lips flatten—well, they try to. Disappearing that lush dick-tease of a mouth would take an act of God. Her lashes lower over her pretty eyes, and my fingers itch with the need to touch her chin, tilt her head back, and order her to look at me. I slide both hands in the front pockets of my jeans just in case they get any fucking ideas. “Ma, you might as well just say it and stop censoring the shit in your head. You can be honest with me. One, we’ll never see each other after tonight. Two, we’ve already established that we’re members of a club no sane person wants membership to. But there’s no one else who would understand you more. Perks of this shitty club. And three, we’ve already judged the hell outta each other. You’ve read my private shit without my permission, and I was an asshole to you. Unless we pull out a shovel and start digging, our opinions of each other ain’t getting much lower. So that pretty much makes me the perfect person to talk to. Ain’t shit you say gonna shock or disgust me.”
She tips her head back, her pretty face balled up.
“I really hate that you make sense,” she growls, and if she guessed how cute as opposed to threatening she sounds, she’d stop that.
Sighing, she thrusts a hand in that thick-as-fuck hair, and an image of my fingers fisting those reddish-brown curls flickers in my head before I can block it out. I clench my teeth, battling back the acidic burn of guilt. And lust.
“I always do.” The words come out sounding like they ran barefoot over a gravel road.
She squints up at me, then shrugs a shoulder. But that troubled expression creeps back over her face.
“How did you know it was time to”—she pauses, licks her lips, and I’m inordinately fascinated by the sneak peek of that pink tongue—“be with someone? That you could be with them ... like that?”
She’s having a hard time sayingsex, and I’d find it amusing if worry and guilt didn’t reflect so clearly in her eyes.
“The first time I fucked after she ...” My jaw clenches again, and just seconds ago I found her inability to uttersexfunny. But here I am, still unable to saydied. Goddamn hypocrite. “It was a year and some months later. And afterward? I threw up like the fuckingExorcist. Couldn’t even wait until I got home. I did it right there in the hotel parking lot. Being physically ready is different from being mentally, emotionally ready. I got off, but the guilt? It ate me alive, and it was like I cheated on her.”
“Is it still like that?” she whispers.
“Adina.” I sigh and rub a hand over the nape of my neck, staring over her head for several seconds before lowering my gaze to hers again. “For me, sex is just that—sex. Fucking. No emotions, no promises, sometimes no names. It’s a need that I take care of when my fist is no longer doing the job. And even then, because I know what it’s like to have just the opposite of that—making love with a person who means more to you than yourself—it’s empty.” I shake my head and a reluctant half smile curls a corner of my mouth. “I guess what I’m trying to say is there’s no timeline. There’s no ‘right time.’ There’s no shame in needing to satisfy a biological, physical need. Or even an emotional one. I’m not one of those people who believe women have to be emotionally connected to a man to have sex. That’s bullshit. But if you just want to lie next to someone again, feel them move inside you again, make you come again ... then that’s your right. That’s your privilege.”
Despite the evening shadows, I glimpse her eyes darkening. Catch her throat moving up and down on a swallow. Her arms wrap aroundher chest, and her lips part as if she’s about to say something to me but then, at the last moment, changes her mind.
I shift closer—I don’t know why, but I want to know what thought she shut down.
“Why, Adina? Have you been thinking about going there? Letting someone touch you?” Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I drag my gaze over her, lingering on the swell of her hips, the sexy thickness of her thighs.
Goddamn, baby girl is bad as fuck.
Inhaling, I trample down the heat sliding through my veins like the fires she’s paid to put out. I’ve felt lust, need, in the last two years. But this ... yeah, it’s stronger, hotter. Different.
And I want no part of it.
And yet I don’t tell her to forget about my questions. Don’t tell her to forget about answering. Because no matter how much my mind scurries away from the truth, I want to hear it.
