Perfectly Imperfect(63)

When they’ve cleared the room, I look over and narrow my eyes at Kirby. She holds her hands out and laughs. “Oh, whatever. I could say something to defend what I said, but both of you know it’s true, so just shut it.”

Kane laughs and I look over at him. He isn’t embarrassed; if anything, he loves this.

“What are you doing here? Didn’t you have plans?” Kirby asks.

“We still do,” I tell her and try to tell her to shut up and leave with my eyes.

“Ah. I see. Well, carry on, children. I’m going to go up and spend some time with my crazy kid and husband. Have fun and all that.” She grabs the television remote and clicks the power off, moving to leave the room. “Hey, Wills, I saw a few bikes in the garage earlier.” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, which I’m sure was intentional since she was giving a not so subtle reminder to me to buck up before she leaves the room laughing.

“She’s interesting,” Kane tells me, his mouth near my ear and his breath making my whole body tremble.

“Yeah,” I breathe.

This time, I reach out and fold my hand around his, walking back the way we just came and pulling him toward the stairs leading to my end of the house. Each step I take has my heart beating more and more erratic. Even though I feel like I’m about to swallow my tongue, I’m positive I need to make this move, especially since he knows how nervous I am. I want him to know that even with that, I have no doubts about where this is headed.

“Willow?” he asks when we step through the threshold and into the bedroom. His bedroom.

I turn to him, dropping his hand and trying not to pass out with how quickly my breaths are coming now. The violent pounding of my heart takes over my body until I feel like I can hear the blood roaring through my veins. He takes a step forward, the warmth of his nearness bathing the front of me. We aren’t touching, but it feels like he’s consuming every inch of my body.

“Are you nervous right now?”

I nod.

“Tell me why.” His demand, steady and calm, gives me the courage I need to tell him. To open a vein and bleed my insecurities.

“I’m not perfect,” I whisper.

“And neither am I, Willow. I don’t want perfect. What so many see as perfect, to me, is fake. Perfect isn’t achievable naturally. No one, and I mean no one, is perfect.”

I’m shaking my head before he’s even done speaking, but one long finger comes up and presses against my lips before I can speak.

“No, let me finish. There isn’t beauty in perfection. It’s as fake as the image the word projects. Beauty is found in imperfection, Willow, because to admit you’re not perfect means you’re admitting you’re not whole and absolute. When I think of myself, I see someone willing to admit he’s as far from complete as it gets because, in order to get to that perfection, I need to find the other part of me who will make my life better. To take all the faults I have and fill them, and only then will I be there. You see, the way I see it, the only way to become perfect is to find that perfectly imperfect person who brings it out of you.”

When he stops, I swear I might have stopped breathing. How am I supposed to respond to that?

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice strong and sure.

“Yes, Kane. Nerves or not, I do.”

“Then let me show you what I see when I look at you.”

He brings his hands up, framing my face once again in a way I’m quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of. His warm eyes implore, begging me without words to let him continue. I do not intend to stop him, regardless of the butterflies currently taking over my system. I’m all in.

When his lips touch mine, my whole body comes alive. My hands fist the soft cotton of his shirt, and I breathe him in. Our mouths move together, and when I feel his tongue sweep against my own, I moan deeply into his mouth. Each kiss we’ve shared before now feels like child’s play compared to the way he’s indulging in the taste of me—the same I am him.

It’s a slow build of power. Our desire rises with every twist and slide of our tongues. My hands release their hold of his shirt, and I slowly press them down, gliding against his cotton-covered muscles, desperate to feel the heat of his skin against my palms. My fingers tingle with each drag against his body.

Before I can move the hem and touch him the way I’m itching to, he spins me around and pulls my back to his front. His mouth returns to my body, and he presses softly against the sensitive skin just below my ear. My neck, branded in the heat of his wet kisses, has the tension of arousal coiling tighter and tighter with each slow drag.