words hovered on his tongue, things he shouldn’t be saying to her. Words like “stay” and “more” and “future.” Words like “I need you.” Words like “You’re fucking incomparable.”
Her lips found his neck, and she pushed him back against the bed, taking charge of his body. He rolled his hips up against her. She was so hot, bare breasts pressed against his chest. Sexy little black underthings left most of her glorious backside free, and he let his hands take full advantage.
“And the man who doesn’t like Shakespeare has all the best words.” She kissed him, her tongue sweeping the inside of his mouth while her body writhed on top of his. “Who would have thought?”
“Not me.”
“You are a charmer.”
He bristled at the description. “I don’t care about charming anyone else, Cora. Not now. Now it’s…you. Only you.”
“It’s only you, too,” she whispered, something flickering in the depths of her eyes. Something wary and wonderful and raw.
“I want you to stay in my bed tonight. The whole night.” He brushed her hair back and glided his thumb over her cheek. Cora nodded, bringing her mouth back down to his and kissing him like the air in her lungs depended on it.
His words were true. He thought of her day and night. Only her. He wanted her in his bed, in his arms, in his shower. He wanted her lips brushing his ear as he fell asleep and her fingers entwined with his. And he wanted to wake up next to her as well.
Nobody else would satisfy him.
And he never thought he’d feel like that about a person ever again.
Chapter Twenty
Her desperate heart wanted so badly to read into his words—to believe she was special.
But she, Cora Cabot, was not special.
Never had been, never would be. Special was for people who were born talented and beautiful and exceptional. Special was for the select few. And she’d learned the hard lesson over the years that she was absolutely and thoroughly average. Not bad, but average. Not ugly, but average. Not unintelligent, but average.
In fact, her father’s website called it out specifically: our agency is founded on the rigorous pursuit of exceptional literature.
And he’d rejected her manuscript. Meaning it wasn’t exceptional.
That stung. But Cora wasn’t one to indulge her ego nor the delusion that she was above the norm, despite Trent trying to woo her with such words. She could not be suckered into believing that this whirlwind vacation fling was anything more than scratching a primal, physical itch.
Even if her heart didn’t believe a single word of the protection plan her brain was laying out.
She’d almost crumbled when he’d offered for his dad to read her manuscript, when he said she deserved encouragement. It was a tempting cocktail and he seemed to know, better than anyone, how to reach her.
Which was all the more reason to hold him at a distance.
“You’ll forget all about me the second I’m gone,” she said, smoothing her hands up and down his chest.
Trent’s skin was honeyed and warm, deepened by the day spent in the sun. His hair seemed even lighter, strands of it almost pure white gold. But his blue eyes were no longer a calm ocean; they were a storm—dark and direct and unwavering.
“I won’t,” he said. “Even if I wanted it more than air, I wouldn’t forget you.”
“Please don’t.” Her voice shook.
“Don’t what?”
“Make this out to be more than it is.”
She pressed her face to his neck, moving her body to draw his mind to the physical and away from the emotional. It would be only more painful when she had to pack her bags. When she had to walk out that door. Because Trent had marked her, and the truth of it was, she would never ever forget him.
These memories would follow her to her grave.
“And what is it?” His voice was like flint.
“We’re having fun… Aren’t we?” She chanced a look at him.
Trent held his arms tight around her, the press of his hard muscles a comfort she never thought she’d crave. To be trapped in a man’s arms like this… She felt safe. Secure. Wanted.
“Yes, we’re having fun,” he replied, burying his face in her hair. “But if you think I’ll happily skip on to the next woman the second you walk out that door, then you’re wrong.”
What was she supposed to make of that? It was a trap. A rocky, crumbling cliff face luring her to emotional ruin. His secret was a wedge between them, her baggage wrenching that