Stars explode behind my shuttered eyes, and I’m awash in heavenly sensation, my entire body putty in his expert hands. I run my fingers through his hair, gently rocking my hips against his as his pelvis moves sensually against mine. There is no denying our mutual arousal, but his thrusts aren’t forceful. His body moves languidly against mine while he focuses his attention on making love to my mouth.
I am lost in Kent Kennedy, and I never want him to stop doing this.
No man has ever kissed me like this.
Like I’m his world and he’ll die if he can’t keep tasting me.
I don’t know how long we kiss for, but it feels like forever before we finally pull apart, to draw a breath.
His lips are swollen, his hair is messy from my fingers, and his skin is flushed. “Damn.” He rubs his thumb along my lower lip. “If all goodnight kisses are like that, I’ve seriously been missing out.”
“You and me both,” I croak, my voice heavy with desire.
He kisses me again. Just once. It’s infinitely tender, and I swoon beneath him.
“Good night, Presley baby,” he whispers into my ear. “Sweet dreams.”
I stand at my door for way longer than necessary, touching my lips with a cheesy grin on my face, just staring at the hallway, wondering how I got to this point in my life. Because there’s no denying I am attracted to this man. More than that, I need to understand what makes him tick, and there is zero point trying to deny I want him badly because it’s the truth. No man has ever claimed my attention so wholeheartedly, and though it’s risky, because he doesn’t date and I’m not sure he even knows what he wants beyond getting me into his bed, I’m invested now, and I’m not walking away.
***
I’m floating on a cloud the next day, especially when I receive another delivery of infinity roses. This time, there is a whole bunch of them in a beautiful white and silver box. My giddy grin expands as I read his new note. It simply says, “Welcome to my World,” and there’s a YouTube link underneath it. I type the link into the browser on my phone, and my heart melts as I listen to Elvis sing. The song is about a man inviting a woman into his heart and how he’ll be waiting with open arms.
The hidden message thrills me.
Who knew the bad boy could be such a romantic underneath that cocky exterior?
After a workout in the gym, I spend the rest of the day pressing flowers into my drawing, setting it aside when it’s finished. I’ll bring it to the custom framing shop on my way to class tomorrow.
Imogen and Kady are coming over for dinner, and I’m in the middle of prepping the lasagna when the doorbell rings. Rubbing my hands on the front of my apron, I head to the door, checking the peephole before I open it.
Chris falls through the door, and I barely catch him in time. Cigarette smoke mixes with alcohol fumes and stale sweat as I hold my ex in my arms. “Jesus, Chris.” I grip his upper arms, holding him up off me as I use my foot to close the front door. Tucking his arm around my shoulder, I half-carry, half-drag, him over to my couch, throwing him down flat on his back.
His eyes roll in the back of his head, and he groans as he shifts onto his side. I snatch the trash can in the nick of time, shoving it under his face before he heaves into it. His entire body is shaking, and sweat beads on his brow, plastering strands of his stringy dark hair to his face.
A familiar ache lances across my chest as I watch him puke his guts up. It’s mixed with the usual disgust and frustration and anger.
My feelings when it comes to Chris are a complicated mix, and it doesn’t get any easier.
He looks worse this time. Thinner than I’ve ever seen him and so fucking washed-up.
“Sorry, babe,” he groans, flopping back down on the couch when he’s expelled the liquid contents of his stomach.
“Don’t move,” I instruct, putting the trash can to one side while I go to the fridge and remove a bottle of water. I hand it to him. “Drink that. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Taking the trash can into the bathroom, I rinse it out in the sink before running the bath. I grab the box of supplies from the cabinet, placing it in the sink, before setting a large fluffy towel down on top of the closed toilet seat. Then I remove sweats, boxers, and a clean T-shirt from the drawer in my dresser where I keep Chris’s things, adding them on top of the towel. I check the temperature of the water before switching the faucets off and moving out into the living room.
Chris is slouched awkwardly against the corner of the couch, drinking the water. I sit beside him, clasping his face in both my hands. “You look like death warmed over.”
“Hello to you too.” He flashes me a smile, and my heart hurts all over again. That smile used to warm every part of me on lonely nights, and it reminds me of the sweet boy I used to know before his addictions took control, transforming him before my very eyes.
“Where have you been?” I ask, hating how his pupils dilate and roll around his eyes. I’m not surprised. I doubt Chris has many lucid moments these days.
“Around.” He shrugs, and I don’t push it.
“You scared me,” I truthfully admit. It’s been eleven weeks since I’ve seen or heard from him. He usually shows up here more frequently, and this time, I thought it had happened.
That I’d get a knock on the door telling me he was dead.
