“Fuck, Duke,” he blurts. He slams his mouth down on mine, moaning into me while he erupts inside me, his tongue scorching mine with need, his body trembling. Our kiss lasts longer, until the aftershocks racing through us both have subsided and he sinks onto me, laying his head on my shoulder. I squeeze his ass with both hands, and he groans, shuddering against me.
“You better stop that,” he says against the hollow of my throat. “I don’t think I can go again after that. Pretty sure you broke me.”
Warmth swells in my chest, and I wrap my arms around him, cradling him against me. I wind my fingers into his messy hair and press my nose to the top of his head, breathing him in, pretending this is real, that it can last, that he feels the same way I do.
When he relaxes onto my chest, and his breathing slows and deepens, I press my lips to his forehead. My heart hammers as I whisper the words I never got to say into the dark room, where pale blue light creeps in along the windows and color tints the horizon beyond the city skyline. I know he won’t answer, but a little part of me still hopes he will. A little part of me still dies when he doesn’t, because I’m afraid he wouldn’t even if he were awake to hear it.
seven
Colt Darling
The jarring sound of my alarm rudely rouses me from my half-slumber on Duke’s arm.
“Fuck,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “I have to go.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, throwing a leg over mine.
“I do,” I say. “I have to get back to the hotel to get my stuff before my flight.”
“You could stay.”
“I wish I could,” I say, sighing as I relax into him again, just for a minute.
“I mean it,” he says, drawing back to look at me. “You could stay here with me.”
“I told my family I’d be home for Christmas.”
“I’m not talking about Christmas.”
For a long moment, I search those dark eyes that tormented me for so long—the fury, the resentment, the desire. I’ve seen it all in those eyes, seen them hard with hate, blown open with drugs, unfocused from alcohol. Even last night, they were clouded with lust. Now, in the cool light of morning, though, they’re clear, his gaze sharp and discerning.
“This is your life,” I say, reaching up to stroke his cheek, just a hint of stubble rasping against my fingertips. “You made it, and it fits you. I don’t know where I fit, Duke. I don’t know where I’ll end up, but right now, it’s Arkansas.”
“Why?” he challenges. “What’s keeping you?”
“My family?” I remind him. “My home? My work?”
“You said you travel for work.”
“I do,” I say. “But would that really be enough? Once every few months?”
“No,” he admits, scowling and rolling away, onto his back.
I sigh and climb off the bed, picking up my clothes from yesterday.
“Do you have someone at home?” he asks, frowning at the ceiling. “A boyfriend or girlfriend?”
“No,” I say. “But it’s not that easy. I grew up there. My life is there. And…” I swallow hard as I bunch my shirt before shoving in one arm and then the other. “And Cedar Crest.”
When I’ve pulled my shirt down over my head, I catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. He’s watching me, his gaze moving over my tattooed arms, as if he’s trying to memorize the patterns, decipher the ink I carry on my skin.
The date my first love died.
The fingernail prints of my second.
Is he searching for a reminder of him?
“There are rehab centers in New York,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.”
