Page 61 of Played
My body jerks at the see-you-next-Tuesday. No one’s ever used that word with me, and until this moment, I could’ve sworn I didn’t even like it. Turns out, from the way my clit pulses like a separate heartbeat, I’m not too opposed. My lashes flutter, and I’m on the verge of closing them when he pinches my chin harder, demanding my attention. Helplessly, I give it to him.
Hell, right now, he could have my attention, firstborn, and soul.
“Listen to me, li’l mama,” he murmurs, and the heat in his gaze dims just a bit. The sight has another feeling trickling through me. Not fear. Dread. Apprehension. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I refuse to lie to you either. This”—he grinds his dick against me again—“is all I got to offer you. I’m not promising a relationship; I was being honest when I told you about not wanting another one. Shit, I doubt I have it in me to give that to anyone else again. But I can give you friendship, a willing body to push back the loneliness, just like you do for me.”
He frees my chin just enough to rub his thumb over my bottom lip, the caress this side of rough. He’s making me feel that touch, leaving animprint on me. The tip of his thumb breaches my lips, and he scrapes the pad over the edge of my teeth.
A lust that’s almost too brutal, too fierce to look at, darkens his face, and it’s several seconds before he returns his gaze to mine.
“Call me a selfish muthafucka, Adina, but I want to be the first person whose hands you put your body and trust into since your fiancé. Ineedto be that person. You gave me the first kiss, and I want the rest. I wantyou.”
I study the golden brown skin pulled taut over his cheekbones, the bright emerald eyes, the thick sandy-brown curls and beard of the same color that surrounds his lush, full mouth.
I have to give him credit; heishonest. A lot of men wouldn’t have bothered with that disclaimer. They would’ve fucked, then played a woman off like she was getting too clingy. But Solomon has always been honest. Sometimes brutally so.
That doesn’t mean a fist isn’t squeezing the hell out of my heart. Or that a tight curl of foreboding isn’t twisting my stomach into knots.
“Say something, ma.”
I part my lips, but nothing emerges. Licking my suddenly dry lips, I say, “Thank you for being straightforward with me.”
Silently, he looks at me, his eyes roaming over my face.
“That’s it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Can I finish my steak?”
After a protracted moment, he lowers his hand from my face and takes a step back. And I suck in a low, deep breath. How I wish it wasn’t saturated with his distinctive scent. The brisk, sharp freshness of the ice he so loves. The undertones of sandalwood and a sensual musk that could be from his soap. But instinct tells me, it’s him. His skin. His essence.
“You the one who was about ready to roll up out of here without finishing eating,” he reminds me, moving farther away from me.
Gratitude and disappointment skate through me at his easy acceptance of my avoidance. I’m not one who’s ever been a pushover, but damn if I don’t love that aggressive side of him.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d pack me up a to-go box, so ...”
He snorts, sinking back down into his chair, and I do the same. For the next half hour, we eat, drink, and don’t mention the intense conversation or the proposition he basically placed in my lap.
I have no clue how I keep up my end of the conversation, because my head is all over the place, constantly replaying his words, his admission. Before I realize it, I’m helping him take the dishes over to the sink, ignoring his protest. The whole time we rinse everything and load the dishwasher, I sneak peeks at him like I’m sixteen instead of twenty-six.
Everything in me longs to hop up on that big, powerful body, lock my arms and legs around him, and grind my heavy, swollen pussy over his ridged abdomen. Another slick glance at his sweatpants and dick print, and the emptiness in my sex becomes more pronounced. It spasms around air, and it’s almost a physical ache, crying to be filled, stretched, possessed.
My head and body continue their battle, even as we exit the kitchen, walking side by side down the hall toward the front door. I’m quiet, lost in this tug-of-war.
Solomon grabs my coat from the end of the banister and holds it up. Even as I slide my arms through the sleeves, a feeling akin to panic spreads in my chest, reaching to my throat and lower to my belly. A hollow ... sadness filters through like dark, sticky strings.
Oh God.
I stare at his broad back as he turns toward the front door, reaching for the knob and holding his cell up to his ear. Dimly, as if through a long windy tunnel, I hear him talk to Demarcus. I should be right behind him, ready to walk out that door and into the car his driver is probably about to pull up in, here in the next few minutes.
I’m doing the smart thing. Therightthing.
I’ve always prided myself on being reasonably intelligent. In this moment, though? I’m questioning that.
I can walk away, resume the existence I had before Solomon Young came into my life, and probably save myself a world of pain.
Or I can risk popping the bubble that has surrounded me the last year and grab this chance at having this man break me with the pleasure his kisses have already promised. At being touched again, at physically connecting with someone again. At feeling needed, desired.
The choice is clear. The sane one, that is. Protect my peace, my sanity.
