Nights With Him(83)

He could give her what she’d given him.

Surely, he could.

He parted his lips to speak, but an invisible hand gripped his throat. Came down hard on his mouth. The dark cloak of regret was like a silencer that choked all the words he wanted to say, turning them into dust on his tongue. The old familiar standby had resurfaced inside him, wormed his way through his conscious with the reminders of where words could lead. Right words, wrong time. Wrong words, wrong time. They were one and the same, and held too much possibility for pain.

He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her he was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, of hurting the right person, of loving the wrong way. Most of all, he was terrified of not loving enough. He wanted her to know all that was true and dark and painful inside of him.

But he didn’t know how to give voice to that without causing more hurt. So he bottled it up. He tried to contain all that he felt for her in a small space so that it was manageable, so that it never could slither out and wound her.

The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, even though her words both scared him and thrilled him.

He took the easy way out. He brushed his lips softly against her cheek. Then kissed her neck. Then her ear.

“I can’t ever get enough of you,” he said, whispering words that were wholly inadequate. But when he returned to her mouth, he hoped she knew in the soft press of his lips all the things he couldn’t say. He hoped that this—the physical—would be enough to assure her.

But he knew deep down it would never be sufficient. Not for a woman like her. Not for anyone who felt the way she did.

* * *

As the sun peeked through the windows early the next morning, she stretched in bed, reaching her arms over her head, then casting her gaze at him. He was gorgeous next to her, still sound asleep on his side, breathing the slow rhythmic breath of a deep sleeper. She was tempted to run a hand down his bare arm, his muscles so strong. Then to his trim waist, his hips exposed above the sheets.

But she turned away, slid out of bed, and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face.

She was safer by herself.

Perhaps Paris had been a bad idea.

Maybe they should have gotten separate rooms. Because here she was, exactly where she didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to share a bed, a night, a morning with someone who didn’t feel the same.

The night before had been magic; it had been stitched from a dream—the rain, the doorway, the perfume bottles. Him. All the things he’d said until that moment. She was sure he’d felt the same.

But then, she hadn’t said she was falling in love with him to get it in return.

She’d said it because it was unequivocally true. Because it was impossible to keep it inside her any longer. She’d held back with him for so long. She’d been so protective, erected arbitrary boundaries to seal herself off from falling. She’d tried valiantly to keep him at arm’s length, but he’d been so insistent, burrowing his way into her life, her heart, and her head. Such a passionate man, and such a caring one, too. He was the ultimate lover, that sinful mouth and smoldering body a staggering combination. There was so much more, too. His tender side; his funny side; his warmth. She was willing to bet he relished the appearance of Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected, but beneath that veneer he was passionate and fiery, dirty and loving, and, unexpectedly, he was needy. In exactly the way she wanted him to be. He needed her.

Or so it had seemed, she reasoned as she brushed her teeth, erasing the taste of the night.

After ten years of longing, after a whole damn decade of her heart being a goddamn one-way mirror, she thought there were iron gates around it, and it would take moving heaven and earth to knock them down. It hadn’t. It had taken one man less than thirty nights.

But once more, she was back where she’d always been. Loving too much. Feeling too much. The only one of them who felt this way. Putting herself out there to be met with a black hole in return.

She spat out the toothpaste and filled a glass of water, rinsing her mouth.

Soon, her rational side took hold, stuffing her emotional self back into the trunk where that side belonged.

This was all her fault. Jack had never pretended this was for love. He’d laid the cards on the table that night at Gia’s. She’d agreed. Willingly. She hadn’t wanted to risk her heart either. She didn’t have to keep risking it, she reminded herself. Hell, if she’d managed to wash away Clay and the feelings she’d had for him, she could damn well do the same with Jack. All she had to do was suck it down. To swallow up that annoying emotion of love, and replace it properly with desire.

She was a smart woman. She knew how to manage emotions. She and Jack were lovers for thirty nights. They were nothing more. She wasn’t going to ruin this trip, or this time, or her speech by letting emotions cloud her. She was going to finish out this no-strings-attached affair the way it had started—physically. She’d gotten into this to get over Clay, and that had happened. She no longer pined for her friend. She no longer was in love with him. That was all that mattered. She’d taken her medicine; she’d gotten the cure. She didn’t need to push forward into something more. She’d keep this affair precisely where it belonged—as an affair.