Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(115)

I lean my head back on his chest, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat, and the slow movement of his body as he breathes. He starts to stroke my hair, runs his fingers along the side of my face. It feels good.

“You know…” he ventures after what seems like a very long time, “I’ve never had anything quite like this.”

“What do you mean?” I want to see his face, but there’s not much point trying. It’s too dark, and I’d have to shift positions. I’m way too comfortable to move even if it means I can’t evaluate his expression.

“It’s kind of…” He seems to be groping for words. “It’s like family.”

“You never had a family?” It occurs to me I know almost nothing about Cain’s past. Everything I know about him begins when he first entered my father’s orbit.

“Not so much,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s no big deal. “My mom died when I was a kid—drunk driver. My dad… She said he died, but I think he just walked out on her. Anyway, after she died, I went into the system and I never managed to get back out.”

The words, delivered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, bring tears to my eyes. “God, Cain. I’m so sorry.”

He offers another shrug. “Nothing you could do about it. Nothing anybody could do about it. I was acting out, a mess—nobody wanted to take that home with them. Just a fact of life.”

I wonder if anyone in his life has ever genuinely loved him. It’s too sad a question even to ask.

“I wonder if it’s worse,” I say quietly, “to not have a family at all or to have a family like…like mine.”

He draws me a little closer, kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. There were foster families who seemed to care, and then there were families who didn’t give a shit as long as they got their check from the government. Some of the other kids… Well, let’s just say that’s where I first learned how to fight.”

I can’t even imagine. I’m already an emotional mess, and I have to fight back the tears just thinking about what his life must have been like. Still, I manage to ask him the next question in a steady tone. “What made you decide to fight professionally?”

His voice is very quiet. “Only thing I was any damn good at.”

Now I really am crying. I try to keep myself still in his arms, but I know he can feel it. He starts lacing his fingers through my hair in slow, soothing strokes.

“Hey, now,” he whispers. “None of that.”

“I can’t help it.” I can barely get the words out. “It’s just all been too much.”

He shifts behind me, turning so I have to move off his lap and down to the sand next to him. As his eyes meet mine, I can tell he’s genuinely concerned. “I know it’s been a long couple of days. But it’s all going to be all right. You’ll see.”

I shake my head. He keeps saying that, but it’s hard for me to believe him. This whole plan seemed so sensible when I thought of it; now it seems like a pointless act of rebellion that’s going to get us nowhere. “Pop’s going to kill me.”

His hand closes hard on my wrist. “No. I won’t let him.” Before I can protest, he’s kissing me hard, then he draws back, grasping my other wrist. “You don’t belong to him anymore. You’re mine. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t make any guarantees.”

“Oh, yes I can. You’re my wife. I’m responsible for you now. And nobody is going to lay a goddamn hand on you. Not even your father.”

I nod, but I don’t answer. I know we’re still in danger—the texts and messages from my father made that all too clear. But right now, right here, I just want to believe him. And when he kisses me I lean into it, losing myself in the taste and the feel of him.

The kiss is different from any we’ve ever shared before. Gentle. He strokes my face with one hand while he slowly, meticulously explores my mouth with his tongue. His hand cups my breast, his thumb circling my nipple, and I start to melt.

I’ve never been with anyone who knows how to hit my sexual buttons the way Cain does. Granted, I’ve never been with anyone enough times for them to learn me the way Cain has, but it’s more than that. He just seems to know, without being told. And yes, he’s pushy and domineering, but with him I feel protected, not threatened. I don’t know what makes the difference. All I know is that the idea of spending the rest of my life with him doesn’t scare me.

It probably should.

You can’t choose who you love. And that thought should scare me, too. Because who had ever said anything about love?