RISK(30)

"Are you planning on f*cking River?" I ask in an even tone. This is an adult conversation and I can act like a goddamn grown-up when I have it.

"Why are you bringing him up?" Her hands jump to her hips.

"I'm bringing him up because that son of a bitch couldn't keep his eyes off your ass last night."

"He was looking at my ass?"

How the hell is this conversation even happening? My face should be firmly planted between her thighs by now, my hands all over that ass. Instead, we're discussing another man's fascination with her body.

I rub at my forehead. "Are you going to sleep with River or not?"

"I haven't even said yes to his dinner invitation yet."

Fucking hell.

"He asked you out?" My voice sounds strangled. It's a reflection of how my cock feels.

She tucks her hair behind her left ear. "He sent me flowers today and on the card there was a cute poem. He made up a rhyme about taking me to dinner in the form of a poem."

"A poem?" I repeat back, trying to absorb the idea that he wrote her poetry. I bought her half a burger and some fries. "So you're going out for dinner with River after you've had dinner with me?"

"Are you talking about actual dinner?" She purses her lips. "Or are you using dinner as a euphemism for sex?"

I lost my virginity when I was a teenager. Since then, I've never once met a woman I craved this much who I spent this much time talking to before I f*cked her. Ever.

"I don't use anything as a euphemism for sex." I cross my arms over my chest. "When I talk about f*cking, you'll know it. There will be no doubt."

"In that case, I haven't decided if I'll have dinner with River or not," she pauses. "The poem he wrote was very sweet."

"I'll write you something too."

"You'll write me a poem?" She laughs. "I can't wait to read it."

I've never written a woman a poem. I wouldn't know where to f*cking start.

"I told you that I'm nothing like River. It's not poetry, but it's something." I turn on my heel and head to the foyer. I pick up the black marker, unsure if it will even work after all this time. As I approach Ellie, I catch sight of her against the backdrop of the view of Manhattan.

My city, the very first love of my life, is there paling in comparison to the beauty of this woman. This woman who fell into my lap and my life and who I can't stop thinking about even though I've never really kissed her.

I reach for her hand and she gives it easily. I turn it over, pulling the cap off the marker with my teeth. I let it drop to the floor. I write on her skin while she watches my every move.

When I'm done, I toss the pen onto the piano.

Ellie looks down at her palm. She swallows hard and then, without a word, she grabs the front of my shirt, rises to her tiptoes and brushes her lips over mine.





Chapter 20


Ellie




His kiss is demanding. His lips are soft, their touch gentle at first, but then they part and his tongue greedily finds mine.

His moans are raw as his large hands cup my neck, controlling the tilt of my head and the pressure of his mouth on mine. He whispers something against my lips as he pulls back to catch a breath. I don't hear it. I can't make it out, but I sense it.

The desire is there in his kiss, and in his touch.

I reach up to wind my fingers through his hair. That pulls another sound from within him, but this time it's a groan. It's deep and gruff, the sound reverberating through him and into me.

"I'll give you anything you want," he whispers against my cheek as he breaks the kiss. "Tell me what you want, Ellie."

Everything. All of it. I want to feel and taste. I want to touch the skin that's hidden under his clothes. I want to hear the sound of his breathing and then when it hitches I want to savor that, knowing that he came just for me.

"I want you inside of me," I manage to say before his hand drops to my thigh.

His fingers race up my skin stopping when they reach that spot. It's the spot where the bullet hit me. I hated the scar for years. I was wary each time I took off my clothes in front of a man, worried that he wouldn't see anything but the jagged edge of the circular imperfection on my skin.

The men I've been with have never asked me about it, or even acknowledged it. They've all been too busy chasing their own needs. Even the man I promised to marry couldn't be bothered to understand the hidden pain that the scar represents. He knew I'd been shot. He never said the words, but I could sense that it was merely a flaw to him that wasn't worth a touch.

Nolan pulls back; his fingertip still focused on the scar. "Believe my words, Ellie. Every word I say to you, believe me."

I look into his eyes. I want to believe him, but this is fleeting. We have this one night. I don't expect more even if I want it. "I'll believe you tonight."

He shakes his head. There are words there, on his tongue, but they don't leave his lips. He scowls as if he's going to reprimand me for not having faith in him that this thing between us will still be alive tomorrow. It might smolder for a week or two, but I have to stay grounded. I can't let myself want what I can't have.

Disappointment has been as much a part of my life as breathing. I don't know what it feels like to get the things you desire. That's why I stopped wishing for anything I don't already have.