Seriously, he had to quit saying shit like that. He was killing me.
“FYI, babe, I’m not a woman prone to liking fervent avowals of adoration,” I told him in an effort to get him to stop making me feel squishy happy like a big girl.
His hands framing my face pulled me closer. “Bullshit, Sylvie. I say that shit, light hits your eyes. You love that shit, you feed off it and I’m gonna give it to you until you’re addicted to it and can’t live without it.” His thumbs swept my cheekbones and his voice went velvet rough. “But don’t worry. I swear, I won’t make you have to.”
He was wrong.
Not about my bullshit. He was totally right about that.
He was wrong about having to give it to me until I was addicted to it.
I already was.
“Let me go, hot stuff,” I whispered, lifting my hands to curl my fingers around his wrists. “It’s getting late.”
Frustration flashed briefly in his eyes before he nodded and pulled me closer while lifting up his head so I felt his lips on my forehead. Then he tipped my head back and I felt his lips touch mine. Finally, he let me go and stepped away but grabbed my hand while his other opened the door and he walked me out to his front step.
He squeezed my hand and I looked up at him.
“Later, Sylvie.”
“Later, babe.”
I got up on tiptoe, he bent for me and I touched my mouth to his.
When I pulled back, his eyes were looking deep into mine and I could see the light in them, happiness and hope in his rugged, scarred features, the feeling I felt in my soul reflected in his face, a look he just told me I gave back.
Yeah, I was addicted.
Totally.
And so was Creed.
Then again, that was always the way.
And, hope to God, it always would be.
Chapter Eighteen
My Whole World
A cold winter evening in Kentucky, seventeen years earlier, Creed is twenty-two, Sylvie is seventeen…
Once I heard him get her down, I stole out of Creed’s bedroom, down the hall and cautiously looked around the corner into the empty living room. I didn’t enter it until I saw Creed walk in and, at the look on his face, I took a deep breath and moved into the room.
His angry eyes came to me.
I bit my lip, let it go and asked, “How is she?”
“Drunk and f**kin’ passed out. The usual. How do you think she’d f**kin’ be?”
I bit my lip again and took a deep breath before I moved to him.
Our evening had been interrupted by a call from the Sheriff telling Creed to come and get his Momma. She was smashed, as usual, making a ruckus, as usual and, before the Sheriff was forced to arrest her, Creed had to do something about it. So he hauled himself out to his truck and did something about it.
As usual.
This happened at least once a week.