it that way. “Do you think about that kiss at Christmas?”
Her lips parted, her cheeks getting that charming pink color.
“Look at me."
He didn’t think he was breathing when her gaze raised to his, held. The golden-green color had deepened, the pupils big and dark. "Tell me," he said softly.
“Yes. I do."
"Every night?"
Her eyes sparkled a little, showing some spirit he liked. A lot. "I have other things to think about than just that."
"That wasn't a no. I plan on kissing you again, really soon. So if you die of a panic attack, I won’t get that chance.”
Her lips curved, her eyes lighting in a way that shot heat straight through every nerve-rich part of his body.
“Okay.”
Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he guided her to her feet. When her gaze fell naturally to his lap, she quickly looked away.
No big surprise, the pressure of her body had inspired a reaction. While he took immense pleasure in thinking about her gorgeous ass being on his lap, he couldn’t get hard from just the thinking. Psychogenic erections, the term for that, weren’t something he could have any more. But reflexogenic, caused by direct physical contact to his cock? Damn straight.
The press of her lips together, the significant sudden absence of that trembling in her fingers, told him she wasn’t upset by it. In a polite world, he’d make things easy by pretending he hadn’t noticed her noticing. He wasn’t feeling polite. Instead, when his steady, silent regard brought her gaze back to his, he locked her into a full acknowledgement of it.
She’s a woman now. As Marcus had said.
A crackle of gravel in the parking lot outside told him the community transport van for the college had arrived. But she still didn’t look away. It was as if she knew he had to tell her she could. His reaction to that was so strong, he considered pulling her on his lap again.
But Marcus had been right about that other thing. She’s everything. Her happiness, her well-being.
“Daralyn,” he said in measured tones, gripping his push rims so he didn’t reach for her instead. “Go on before you miss your ride.”
She swallowed. Turning away, she collected her backpack and picked up the lunch box. When she reached the door, she pulled it open, making the shop bells mounted over it ring. The chain on her wrist clinked against the knob.
“See you in a while,” she said, shooting him a shy glance.
“You sure will.”
A small smile, and she stepped out, letting the door close behind her.
He moved to the window. At the open door of the roomy passenger van, she hesitated. There were five people in it, in addition to the driver. Since Daralyn had her head lowered, as if she were thinking, he got ready to go out there and give her reinforcement if she needed it.
Then she curled her fingers over the chain, the ring. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the rail and mounted the steps into the vehicle. When the door closed, she had settled gingerly into a seat next to a nerdy-looking guy staring at his phone.
The van pulled away, trundling out of the parking lot and accelerating once it was on the paved road.
He sat in an empty store, his heart aching, desire coursing through him. She’d been gone five seconds, but the Daralyn-sized empty space in the store had the density of a black hole.
Truth Number One. He wanted her, and he didn’t want to hold back on that any longer.
Truth Number Two. Maybe he was channeling some bizarre Fifty Shades thing that he’d absorbed by falling asleep to late night TV, but that didn’t fit. He wanted to say that kind of thing wasn’t him or her, but their reaction to one another during those odd moments said otherwise. And yeah, he’d looked at some of this stuff online, but he hoped like hell he’d stumbled on the wrong places, because he’d seen things he… Fuck, he didn’t even want those things in his head.
But some of it hadn’t repelled him. Just the opposite. That disturbed him more than the stuff that had.
That brought him to Truth Number Three. He needed to talk to Marcus. Because there was another reason Marcus’s words had taken up residence in his head. The online sites had helped Rory realize it, too.
Marcus wasn’t “just” Thomas’s husband.
Marcus and Thomas split their time between Marcus’s penthouse in New York City and a 1940s farmhouse they’d bought here. A few