She lurched forward in her seat, into his arms, sliding onto his lap as he sat down on the floor and cradled her against his chest. She wet the front of his starched shirt with her tears—tears she’d kept mostly bottled up since that terrible night at Forrester.
I don’t care if she’s lovely or not. I don’t care if she’s fat or thin, fair or foul, beautiful, plain, or downright ugly. I don’t know if she’s smart or stupid, interesting or dull. I don’t know, and I don’t care.
She cried for the father who didn’t want her.
She cried for the girl inside who desperately wanted to please him.
She cried because she hated going to Story Imports every day.
She cried because Cameron Winslow was holding her so tightly, she knew he was giving her permission to be as sad as she needed to be—without judgment, without condemnation—and it humbled her that this man, who’d been a trial to her life just weeks ago, was quickly becoming one of her most cherished friends.
“I hate to see you so sad,” he murmured, pulling the pins from her hair until it tumbled from its chignon, falling around her shoulders and down her back. He stroked it gently, soothingly, and her tears slowed to a trickle.
“I’m sorry,” she said, burrowing into his shoulder and closing her eyes. He smelled like soap and starch, clean and masculine, and she savored the warmth of his arms, the strength of him, the compassion and care.
“Don’t be.”
She slowly became aware that he was kissing her hair, his lips landing gently on her head, pursing and releasing over and over again, the light sounds making her breathing shallow and fast. She arched closer to him and leaned her neck back to look up at him.
His eyes flashed, green and wild, for just a moment before his lips landed flush on hers, coaxing hers open beneath his. His tongue slipped into her mouth, seeking hers, and tangling with it once found. She moaned, turning in his arms so that her breasts, puckered and tight against her thin, sheer bra and silk blouse, pushed into the hard wall of his chest. He lifted her bottom, urging her to straddle his lap and, once she had, pulled her closer to him as he bit her bottom lip, pulling on it gently before releasing it. She wound her arms around his neck, finally plunging her hands into his thick, black hair and savoring the feeling of the soft strands between her fingers, loving his groan as she sucked on his tongue before letting it go. She guided his lips to her throat, leaning her neck to the side as they touched down on her hot skin, kissing and blowing, raising goose bumps of pleasure all over her body. She let her head fall back and her eyes close as he kissed a trail from her throat to her ear, taking the sensitive lobe between his teeth and biting gently as she whimpered, then sighed.
“Cameron,” she panted. “What are we doing?”
“I can’t help wanting you,” he murmured against her neck, his hot breath fanning her pulse. She could hear it beating in her ears and was sure he could feel it against his lips.
“I like it that you want me,” she confessed, her fingers playing lightly in his hair as their chests crashed into each other with every drawn breath.
“But I’ll ruin this,” he said softly, bending his head to rest his forehead on her shoulder. “I’ll ruin this if we don’t stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have the time right now. And without it, I’ll lose you. And you’re . . . too fine for me to play with or to risk.” His breath was hot on her shoulder, branding her as he continued close to her ear, “You have to understand. When I come for you, there’ll be no half measures, Meggie. When I come for you, I’ll be coming with everything I’ve got.”
She was aroused and frustrated, riveted by the fierce promise embedded in his words.
“I wish my life was simpler right now,” he said, raising his head to look at her, caressing her face with his eyes.
She gulped softly, willing away the tears that brightened her eyes. “I understand.”
Placing her hands on his shoulders, she lifted herself off his lap and stepped away from him, smoothing her skirt back down. She took her napkin and wiped the remaining wetness from her cheeks before putting her glasses back on. His rejection hurt, though she felt his longing for her, and that offered a bit of hope and solace.
He stood up behind her and cleared his throat, prompting her to turn around. His eyes were dark and wide, infused with a vulnerability that did something extreme to her heart—it made her want to protect him and do what was best for him, and be whatever he needed her to be . . . now, tomorrow, for the rest of her life.
“Meggie,” he said, gulping softly, “if you asked me to be with you, I wouldn’t be able to say no.”