Page 65 of Worth the Scandal
I look up at Scarlett, eyes burning.
“And I can’t prove he’s wrong.”
She exhales, lips parted like she wants to say something—anything—but can’t.
“I don’t remember parts of that night,” I whisper. “I can’t. I’ve tried. Therapy. Hypnosis. The whole damn checklist. But I was out of it. I’ve seen the toxicology report, there were sleeping pills in my system but I don’t take them, I’ve never had to before so how they got there I don’t know.”
I turn away. “That’s the part that scares me most. Not the crash. Not the guilt. But the not knowing. What if I missed a sign? What if I ignored something? What if I could’ve saved her?”
The silence between us is loaded.
And then she steps forward. Her hand brushes mine.
“Could you have been drugged, Asher?” she asks quietly. “What if it really wasn’t your fault?”
My throat tightens. This woman is a saint or she’s so much more fucked up than I am.
Because I’ve thought it. I’ve wondered. The last thing I remember is being handed a drink from someone who told me it was lemonade.
But hearing her say it?
It feels like someone cracking a window in a room I’ve been locked in for a year.
Why isn’t she mad? She should be furious with me, I don’t deserve this girl. I know that.
As if she’s read my mind her lips part again “I’m still furious at you, I am, for the article. I know it was coming from a good place but Asher I can do damage control myself. Not telling meyour real identity is a huge red flag, whatever your self righteous reasons are.”
“I know, it just comes with a price being a Kingsley. I wanted to do the football thing myself no handout.” I explain cutting her off.
“I wasn’t finished” her eyes scold me like my second grade teacher when I forgot to put my hand up before asking a question.
She continues her face softening “but I understand wanting to hide where you come from and not using a name to get ahead, I understand it very well.”
“Does this mean you don’t hate me?” I lean forward, cupping her face in my hands, waiting for a sign—any sign—that I can kiss her.
Her eyes flick down to my lips, then back up to meet mine.
And there it is.
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t have time to.
Because the next second, her mouth is on mine—crashing, claiming—and her tongue fills the space I’ve been aching to give her. She’s kissing me with urgency, like if she doesn’t do it now, she’ll change her mind and pull away.
My hand slides into her hair as I press her closer, trying to etch the feel of her into my skin permanently like a tattoo. My shirt clings to her, soaked from the sweat of a brutal, self-loathing post game training session. She doesn’t care. She’s everything. And somehow, still more.
Her hands roam my body, breathing ragged and uneven. God, I need her. I want her. It’s late. It’s just the two of us. Is hiking her skirt up right here on the cool grass too far?
Just the thought sends heat surging through my blood, straight to my groin.
My want for Scarlett Walker becomes a need.
She must feel it—hear it in the way my breathing stutters, sense it in the way my hands tremble as they slide down to the edge of her patent leather skirt. I let my fingers trace the hem, dancing over her bare skin, savouring the way her breath hitches in response.
Then she leans into my ear and whispers, “Do it now… before I change my mind about how reckless this is, and remember how mad I’m supposed to be.”
Fuck.
