Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(17)

He reached up, covering her hand with his. Gently sliding her hand down his cheek he twisted his neck until his lips touched her palm and he closed his eyes, savoring every second of contact before letting go of her hand, which she drew slowly away.

“It’s late,” she whispered.

“It’s not so late,” he countered.

“You have to study, and I need…I need to finish reading this and then read it again. And I should find a copy of the script and run some lines.” Her face was stricken and he watched her wince as she swallowed. “Preston, I can’t…do this.”

“This?”

“You,” she clarified, “and me. The timing’s—”

“—shit.” He looked down at the blanket, pushing at a few crumbs before sitting up. “We could figure it out,” he said, using the same words he’d used about Ethan and Mattie.

Elise shrugged, closing the book and pulling her backpack from the corner of the blanket. She shifted to her knees and pulled the pack onto her back. “I don’t see how. Life’s just too busy—for both of us—right now. We don’t need this distraction.”

“I like you,” said Preston, reaching out to cup her cheeks with his warm, strong hands. “I like you more than I’ve liked anyone, in…in forever. I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

***

“I like you, too,” she whispered, unable to stop herself, mesmerized by the clarity of his bright green eyes staring deeply into hers.

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before claiming her eyes again, and she knew that it was her cue to get up and walk home, but she couldn’t. He was about to kiss her, and she wanted him to.

Leaning forward, he dropped his lips to hers, and her eyes closed as her heart fluttered madly behind the prison of her ribs. He cupped her cheeks gently, pulling her closer as his lips caught hers. As though he knew that rubbing his coarse scruff across her skin would burn, he was careful with her, his lips strong, yet soft, insistently taking hers, loving them before giving them back and then taking them once again.

One of his hands slid into her hair, his fingers fanning out in the soft tresses as he cupped the back of her head. His other hand feathered slowly down her neck, tracing her shoulder and skating down her arm before winding around her waist to draw her up against his chest.

Lifting his mouth from hers, he tilted his head, then dropped his lips again, sealing them over hers as she tangled her arms around his neck, arching her body into his.

And he kissed her.

Oh God, he kissed her.

Elise had been kissing men on the stage since she was sixteen years old, and many times the touch of someone else’s lips on hers had stirred a feeling within her, whether she actually liked her co-star or not. But never—not with her meager list of ex-boyfriends, or with any man she’d ever kissed under the hot lights of the theater—had she experienced the sort of chemistry she now shared with Preston Winslow.

His tongue, hot and velvet, slid against the length of hers, and she moaned softly from the back of her throat, a hum of pleasure as his fingers curled into a fist on her lower back, pushing her body closer to his. His hair, soft as silk through her spreading fingers, teased her skin as his lips continued their gentle invasion.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Preston rested his forehead against hers, his sigh hot and sweet against her lips as his chest pushed forcefully into hers with every deep breath he took.

Just another second, her heart whispered. Keep your eyes closed and memorize this. This. Him. Now.

“Elise,” he murmured, and she heard the question in the sound of her name—the plea, the supplication, the permission to keep going, to take more.

For years, she lived her life for one reason: to be a successful stage actress. She’d sacrificed, suffered and labored toward that goal single-minded, poor, and lonely, but always grounded in the belief that if she let nothing get in her way, she would eventually make her dreams come true.

Now? Here? With Preston Winslow’s arm around her, his breath warming her skin, his fingers wound in her hair, the low sound of his voice like precious music to her ears, she began to understand the magnitude of the threat he posed to her ambition. She’d sensed it the first night she met him, as his eyes dove into her very soul, that Preston Winslow unchecked in her life could become an addiction. And here she was, limp and languid against him, her heart begging for one more perfect moment before the brutal ache that would start when she walked away from him yet again.

Before she lost every shred of strength she possessed, she pushed at his chest, leaning away from him. He dropped his hand from her hair and unfurled the fingers that had been resting in a tight knot against her lower back.

“Elise?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

“I have to go,” she said, standing up quickly before she lost her will.

“No,” he said, kneeling on the blanket, looking up her. “Come on. Stay for a few more minutes. I won’t kiss you again.”

“I can’t,” she said firmly. “And… I can’t see you again.”

Her eyes burned, and she blinked them to ward off tears. She’d done it a million times on stage—brought herself to the brink of tears, then held them back for effect. But that was only acting. This was one hundred times harder.