“You’ve heard the saying. Hung like a …”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, loving spending time with her and listening to her challenge me. She’s fucking perfect.
“Every man says they’re hung like a horse. They always brag about their length, and studies have shown that men usually overestimate their length by at the minimum a couple of inches.”
“I don’t.”
“And every man always assures a woman they don’t—which just means they definitely do.”
“You’re setting yourself up for trouble, sweetheart,” I warn her, my voice smooth and slow like honey. She’s playing right into my hands, and she doesn’t even know it.
“Whatever you say,baby.”
I shake my head, not bothering to hide my reaction. This woman could easily turn me into a simpleton—who does nothing but laugh and smile at her every word—if I let her. I have a bad feeling that I will let her do whatever she wants with me. The more time I spend with her, the more I want her. How bad will it get when I’ve actually had time to kiss her, hold her close through the night … I shut down the fantasies that try to start. Now is not the time.
“Tell me something about you that you’ve never told anyone else.”
“Huh?”
“I want to know something you haven’t shared with anyone. Something that will just be between us.”
“Why would you want that?” she asks, sounding hesitant at best and scared to death at worst.
“Because I want to get closer to you. I think I’ve made that pretty clear.”
“Are you willing to give me the same information?” she asks, an eyebrow raised in challenge.
“Sure. I have nothing to hide.”
“Then, you first.”
“Hm …” I hum while debating what I could share that might have the biggest impact on her. I want her to know all of me.
“My old man used to beat the crap out of me when I was a kid because I tried to keep him from hitting my mom. That’s how I got this scar on my forehead. He knocked me out, and my head hit the gravel and some got embedded. A scar was left behind. It’s a constant reminder for me to never be like the bastard who provided his sperm to make me,” I respond and shrug as if those scars don’t run bone deep. “It’s not like I would have ever forgotten anyway.”
She winces, as if she can feel the pain that caused me. “How old were you?” she asks quietly. I could remind her I only agreed to one question. Still, I don’t really want to deny her anything, so I answer. “Nine.”
“Where is he now?” she practically growls.
“I have no idea.”
“Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know that either, but I figure he is. People like him are cockroaches. They’ll probably survive the end of the world. You can’t get rid of a plague.”
“I’m sorry you had to live through that, Wyatt,” she whispers, holding her head down as if she’s afraid to look into my eyes.
“It made me into the man I am today,” I answer simply. “I hate it for my mom. She’s the one who had to live through it. It aged her before her time. He may not have killed her directly, but broken hearts can eventually kill you.”
Her head comes up in shock. “Your mother died?”
“Yeah.”
Her hand reaches out to grab mine. “I’m so sorry, Wyatt.”
I give her hand a squeeze, letting her touch ground me. I don’t let her go either. I love the feel of her softer, smaller hand safe in mine. I can’t remember ever holding hands with a woman before. Well, I mean, my mom, but not a woman that I’m hoping to crawl between the legs of. Shit. I’ve never been this hungry for a woman either.
