He hums, leaning forward to close the gap between us until his mouth brushes against the shell of my ear. “Because,” he says, his lips grazing me, “we agreed when we got married that we wouldn’t spend money on something that important until it meant something to us.”
His answer is as confusing as the way my nipples harden in my shirt. I blame his hot breath echoing against my earlobe, and the husky tone of his voice that vibrates me to my core for the reaction I wish I didn’t have. Can he see what he’s doing to me? I hope not.
“That’s…” I’m at a loss for words.
Because I don’t understand. Not fully. There is so much of their story that I’m clearly missing, and I know I have no right to fill in the gaps.
I shouldn’t be here.
I really shouldn’t be here.
But damn, do I want to be.
The next question out of my mouth makes me want to find his bathroom and drown myself in the tub. “Are you going to kiss me again?” It’s asked in a breathy, choppy tone that gives away how much I want to be in this position.
His lips slowly stretch into a half-grin as he studies me far too closely. The finger with my hair wrapped around it tugs again, this time getting my head closer to his until our mouths are a centimeter apart.
Then he says, “No” and backs away.
I sink against the wall, heart dropping into my stomach. There are so many questions I want to follow up with. Like why? And what the hell? And what am I doing here then?
I don’t ask him any of those.
Because he slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tells me, “The next time we kiss, it’s going to be because you’re begging me for it. And make no mistake, Winter. It won’t feel like I’m pitying you. Not at all.”
If my heart could stop without killing me, it would with his promise. Because that’s what this is. Not a warning. Not a threat. Not a taunt. He is promising that itwillhappen. That I’ll cave. That I’ll finally admit I want this. Whatever the hell this is between us.
Nothing good.
Nothing permanent.
He didn’t even buy his own wife a ring.
“Why did you bring me here, Thomas?”
His lips tilt at the use of his name, but the smirk quickly vanishes. “That’s a great fucking question,” he mumbles, more to himself than me. “I guess I like torturing myself.”
He turns on his heels and walks into another room, but not before I see him adjust himself where the denim of his jeans is tented.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Moskins
I’ve made alot of mistakes in my life, but none of them are as painful as the one currently walking around my house. My balls are at risk of turning blue and falling off, and it’s nobody’s fault but my own. I could have dropped Winter off at her place and forgotten everything she said. I could have ignored her jealousy and pretended it didn’t matter.
But I’m a goddamn masochist.
Winter strolls into the home office, where I store my first-edition novels and spend time alone. I enjoy the smell of wood and leather and find myself hanging out in the armchairs or at my desk more times than I can count. Usually, I’m dicking around on my phone or staring at the bookshelves that line two out of the four walls.
The prized collection of classics cost me an ungodly amount of money, and the ones strategically placed on the built-in shelves are onlysomeof them. The rest are still displayed in glass hutches and entertainment stands in two other properties. I let Emaly choose which ones she wanted to keep in San Diego, and I am still sad she wanted the only editions ofLittle WomenandFrankensteinthat I could find.
“Wow.” I hear her breathe as she runs her hand along the edge of the shelf. When she gets halfway down the line of nineteenth-century titles, she stops and stares at one in particular.
I know exactly which one she’s reaching for before she even turns to me with a skeptical arched brow. “You acted like you didn’t know who Charlotte Brontë was,” she accuses, holding up the copy ofJane Eyre.
I do my best not to look like I’ve been caught in a lie and lift a shoulder. “Must have forgotten,” is the answer I settle with.
One she doesn’t believe. “You like books.” It’s not a question, or even something she expects confirmation over. It’s a simple statement as she carefully puts the novel back in its place and then continues scanning the other titles. “Have you read all these, or is this just for looks? There must be hundreds here.”
