Page 134 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
I scowl at the top of his head. “You bit my boob!”
He sends me a smoldering look. With a rough edge to his voice, he says, “You fucking loved it.”
My stomach drops, like it always does when he looks at me that way. When he rises up on his elbows and takes my head in his hands, my stomach bottoms out altogether.
“And you love me, too. Don’t you?”
His eyes bore straight down into me, blue lasers searing my soul, daring me to lie to him.
“I thought . . . you wanted me . . . space.”
It’s all I can string together. My brain is mush from the way he’s looking at me. From his words and his intensity, from the effort of holding back my enthusiastic Yes!
“I want you to tell me how you feel about me,” he says, looking right into my eyes. “I want you to be brave and put it all out there. To my face this time. We can take it slow. It doesn’t have to change anything. But if you don’t think this is going anywhere, I need to know. I meant what I said yesterday. I can’t be a rebound. For anyone else, yes, but not for you.”
I bite my lip so hard it hurts. “I already told you I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you.”
He waits, unblinking, watching my face.
“And that I’m terrified you’ll break my heart.”
He’s as still as a stone.
Holy guacamole, this guy can be intimidating.
“What else?” he prompts.
“That’s not enough?”
“Indulge me.”
I moisten my lips, wishing my heart would settle into a steady rhythm. “I don’t think you’re a rebound.”
“You don’t think?”
Oh shit. Bad choice of words. “I mean I’m pretty sure.” When he blanches, I quickly add, “I’m almost a hundred percent sure!”
He withdraws from me like you’d recoil from a big steaming pile of dog doo on the sidewalk. He turns his back to me and sits on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands.
I sit up, pulling the sheet up to cover my bare breasts, and try not to panic. He wanted the truth. He asked for the truth!
Yes, he did, and you’re a moron if you think it’s what he really wanted to hear.
I whisper, “Please don’t be angry with me.”
He shakes his head, exhaling heavily. “I’m not. I’m angry with myself.”
When he stands and starts to get dressed, the option of not panicking vanishes. “Matteo, please don’t go. Let’s talk about this.”
“Why? Will it change anything?”
“Please, I want you to understand—”
“I understand perfectly,” he says, ice crackling in his voice. “This is what I was trying to avoid. This is why I told you to take your time. Then you got drunk and told me I was what you were looking for. You paid me wonderful compliments. You even complimented my hair.”
He sounds disgusted, as if he can’t believe I stooped so low.
“You gave me everything I wanted. You gave me all of you. You let go. Only you didn’t, because when I asked you if you loved me, you wouldn’t say yes.” His eyes are fierce. “Not because you couldn’t, because I think you do. You wouldn’t.”
