“You’re actually a gentleman, aren’t you?” Sutton says, the words beginning to slur as she settles onto the front seat of my ride. “It’s not just an act.”
Frowning, I reach in and pull her seatbelt across her lap, buckling it into place. “You thought it was an act?”
She rolls her head toward me and searches my gaze with those glossy, bloodshot eyes. After a moment, she cups my cheek, then pats it gently and drops her hand. “Do you think people can change?”
My chest tightens. She’s talking aboutme. “Yeah, gorgeous, I think people can change. I know they can.”
I have, I want to tell her, but this doesn’t seem like the time to bring up that Vegas trip.
There’s a sadness in her eyes I haven’t seen before. It’s been nagging me all night, but I couldn’t find the time—or the courage—to bring it up. After that intense moment while we waited for our food, we spent the rest of the game in the nosebleeds, watching and laughing, but there was a hint of something I just couldn’t place in her eyes. A bitterness to some of her jokes that didn’t strike me as having anything to do with her usual sasswhere I’m concerned. It was something else, and the more she drank, the more it began to feel like she was chasing something.
Or running from it.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” I finally ask.
She closes her eyes. “Bruins lost.”
“Yeah, well, that should be a good thing for a Hoosier fan.”
She snorts but doesn’t look at me.
“There’s something else going on.” I reach to run my hand over her head, then quickly pull back when she turns to look at me.
“I forgot you’re, like, the king of observance.”
I incline my head. “Comes with the job description.”
Of a Dominant, I don’t add. The ability to read people, from body language to eye movement, to all the tiny little indicators in between, is what makes me a good Dom. It’s what a submissive is saying when they aren’t talking at all that truly tells you how they’re feeling.
With Sutton, reading her, knowing her tells, feels like second nature.
But I can’t tell her any of that. Not when she’s wasted. Revealing the truth is something that needs to happen on neutral ground, while we’re both sober and clear-headed.
I know my girl; she’ll want her wits about her when she tells me to go to hell.
Finally, she sighs loudly, then whispers, “It’s my dad’s anniversary.”
“Shit,” I say under my breath. “I had no idea.” I open my mouth to ask if she’s okay, then realize that’s a stupid thing to ask.Clearlyshe’s not.
Instead of platitudes, I reach for her without stopping to think. If I consider my actions, I’ll talk myself out of touching her, and right now it feels like she needs it.
Like she needs me.
I run my hand over her hair and she swivels her head toward me, eyes opening as she nuzzles into my palm.
My heart skips around clumsily like a drunken sailor. My breath gets lodged in my throat.
She licks her lips and my mouth goes dry.
“Kiss me,” she murmurs, and God help me, I almost obey.
Leaning forward, I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering longer than I should, but fuck me if this isn’t testing every last ounce of my resolve. With my lips against her skin, I whisper, “I’m sorry you’re hurting.” Then I pull back and close the passenger side door, kicking myself all the way around the car because she was right there for the kissing. Lips primed and ready. Waiting.
Wanting.
Climbing in, I catch the soft sound of her snoring and have to bite back a laugh.
No, this was definitely not the time for our first kiss.
