Sweet Nothing(59)

“Here. Come sit down.” There’s a brass lamp in the back corner, but when Luke tries to turn it on, the bulb makes a popping sound and goes dark.

“I’m fine. Really,” I protest. I don’t know if I want to bury my face in his chest or turn and run.

“Okay. Just sit for a second.” Luke sits on the edge of the overstuffed leather couch, then pulls me down next to him. “Listen.” He looks at me, then at the floor. “I loved making the thing, but if it’s too much or too weird or if you really are into that sexy son-of-a-bitch in the math department—”

“No.” I cut him off, surprised at the strength in my voice. “I love it, Luke.” I don’t know how to explain why my entire body is trembling. How to tell him that no one’s ever seen me like he does. That it's terrifying, and feels so fucking good that it scares me.

So I kiss him. Cup the base of his skull in my hands and kiss him, hard. And everything in me lights up when he kisses me back.

When the kiss ends, Luke pauses. I can feel him studying me. His breathing is heavy as he takes in my eyes, my mouth. My neck. On any other night, I’d look away or make a joke or change the subject. Anything to keep him from getting too close. But the connection between us is magnetic, a force so strong it feels unbreakable.

“Luke,” I whisper. “I’m—” I don’t know how to finish the thought. Broken. Flawed. Scared.

“Beautiful?” he finishes. “Strong?” Softly, he kisses my bottom lip, sending a flood of desire rushing through me. I move close enough to feel the heat from his body. I want more. More of him, more of the connection between us. Existing in my own skin isn’t enough anymore. I need to be part of him.

"I've wanted you since the first night we met." His breath makes my lips tingle. "Since the reception. I saw you looking at that painting. The Klimt, remember?"

I smile. Hearing Luke talk about that night is sexy. "Remind me?" I tease. "I go to so many receptions. Meet so many guitarists."

"Well, this guitarist was standing off to the side of the room, watching you watch art." He drags his index finger down my throat and between my breasts. They ache in response. I want him to touch me everywhere. "And you just had this look on your face, like you were excited and scared and lost, all at the same time."

"I was." My lids flutter open. "And then I saw this very cute guy, and he could actually talk about art in a real way, and later I found out that he killed on the acoustic guitar. And I felt a little less lost." But not less excited. And definitely not less scared.

"Hey, that's me."

"Yeah. That's you. I thought you were hired to play the party, by the way."

He laughs. "Seriously? Hope I didn't ruin your hired help fantasy."

"Nah." I shake my head, not wanting to look away, or even blink. I don't want to interrupt the sight of him.

Suddenly, his expression turns serious. Heavy. “I want to take my time with you, Elle." His voice is raspy. "But I don't think I can wait any longer."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

He traces my jaw with the tips of his fingers. Then my collarbone. My skin rises in goose bumps as his fingers map my arms, my hips, my knees. He slips a warm, strong hand beneath my t-shirt, resting his palm on my stomach. I know he can feel the quick pulse of my heart, throbbing through my entire body.

"Wait." I peel off my shirt, tossing it on the floor before I remember which bra I’m wearing. A sports bra. Hot pink, with a definitely noticeable hole under the left armpit. Oh, God. This is not how this is supposed to go.

But Luke doesn't even pause. He just tugs the bra over my head, freeing my breasts. Then he stands up. In a single decisive move, he grabs my hips and pulls, hard. And suddenly, I’m flat on my back. The leather is thick and rich and soft against my skin. And Luke is above me, the candlelight bathing his perfect face in gold and shadow. He kneels next to me, and my legs part instinctively. My body won't allow my mind to overthink this; to sabotage us.

Luke slides his palm over my waistband and between my legs. He presses the heel of his hand exactly where I need him to, and rubs in slow, pressured circles. Already, my center is starting to tighten. I can't let go so quickly. I don't want to. I want to make this feeling last as long as possible. Reaching over my head, I claw at the thick, soft arm of the sofa. I need something to ground me before Luke's touch sends me spiraling out of control.

As if he can read me, he stops.

"Tease," I breathe, feeling a smile spread over my lips.

He shakes his head. "I told you. I want to go slow with you. Until you tell me otherwise." Hooking his fingers under the waistband of my pants, he drags them down. I raise my hips toward the ceiling and kick them off. Exhale, trying to slow my heart. The only thing between me and being completely, totally exposed are my black lace boy shorts. Strangely, though, I'm not panicking. Not reaching for my clothes or making an excuse or even worrying about what Luke thinks about me naked. Because I know from the way he looks at me. He looks at me like he wants to be inside me. Like he wants to take care of me; like I don't have to be this strong, unbreakable rock anymore. He looks at me like I can let go and still be safe.