Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(24)

But, mostly—more than anything—he wanted her in his bed, in his arms, sleeping beside him…even if it didn’t lead to sex for a while. He wanted to know the sounds she made while she slept. He wanted to bury his face in her hair as he drifted off to sleep and the smell of her shampoo seeped into his pillowcase. He wanted to feel her heartbeat under his arm as they spooned on a lazy Sunday morning. And he wanted for hers to be the first face he saw every morning when he started his day.

His emotions were getting all mixed up with the yearnings of his body.

In other words, he was falling in love with her, and physically, he wanted more.

But this new revelation about her background threw a figurative bucket of cold water on his literal lap as he let the information sink in. Likely she hadn’t slept in many men’s beds, if any. Though she kissed like a champion, he wondered how experienced she was at everything that came after kissing, which—oh God—led him to one very important question:

Was it possible that Elise was still a virgin?

His mind sluiced fluidly to something she’d said when she was reading to him from Ethan Frome two weeks ago: They’d been discussing the risks of falling in love, and she’d shared with him that she had never been in love before.

Synapses in his brain fired, and suddenly Preston knew the answer to his question beyond a shadow of doubt. He didn’t have to wonder and he didn’t need to put her on the spot by asking her. He knew in his heart that she wasn’t the sort of woman who would have sex without love, and since she’d never been in love, that meant…she was definitely still a virgin.

Silent for too long and anxious that she not feel uncomfortable for sharing her personal history with him, he took her hand and suggested they walk the perimeter of the roof garden to check out the 360o views of New York, and Elise seemed eager to join him.

Later, after walking her home and taking a cab back to his apartment, he turned his mind to her virgin status with conflicted feelings. Preston hadn’t been with a virgin since he was a virgin, and he’d lost his virginity at sixteen. Not that he’d come close to being a manwhore—rowing had eaten a lot of his twenties, after all—but he’d certainly had his fair share of lovers since then. Would it bother her to know that? Would his experience lessen his value in her eyes or make her pull away from him?

He flinched, narrowing his eyes, suddenly regretting that he’d engaged in casual sex over the years and wishing his history was more defendable. Because he didn’t want for her to pull away. In fact, despite the fact that they’d only been dating for a few weeks, he couldn’t imagine losing her. Every moment he spent with Elise, his feelings for her grew—he admired her, he loved spending time with her, he was so damn attracted to her, every time he touched her or kissed her, his blood raged for more. His shower setting was permanently set to cold.

If he liked her less—if his heart hadn’t already been touched by the sweetness of her smile, her playfulness and intense determination—he might actually think about moving on, because he refused to pressure her, and patience wasn’t Preston Winslow’s strong suit. But moving on never even crossed his mind. He would slow down. He would temper his expectations. He would follow her cues and be respectful of her virtue. And someday—oh God, please—maybe someday, if he was patient, he would deserve her…and all of Elise would belong to him.

***

“Pres,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing against his hot skin, her nipples sensitive and beaded inside her bra, under her T-shirt, pushing against the hard wall of his chest.

Preston dragged his lips over her collarbone and Elise stepped closer to him so she could feel the hard outline of his erection pressing against her pelvis. No, she couldn’t do anything about it tonight, standing on the sidewalk before her apartment, but she wanted to know that he desired her—she needed to know that his body reacted to her touch.

Since their talk at the Met last night, she’d sensed a subtle difference in him. He still reached for her, and he’d kissed her passionately last night when he walked her home, but he hadn’t invited her over to his place again this weekend, or jockeyed for an invitation to hers. And when he kissed her, he was more careful, like she was fragile or breakable. He was holding himself back and she didn’t like it. Wanton that she was, she longed for more.

Still holding her in his arms, he took a step away from her so that his erection wasn’t pressing into her anymore, and she twitched her lips in disappointment. No, she wasn’t ready for sex, but she was invested enough that she didn’t want him to pull away from her either.

“Kiss me again before you go,” he whispered, his voice deep and drunk.

She raised her head, nailing him with her eyes, and stepped into him again, deliberately, pushing against his sex and watching as his breath hitched and eyes darkened. Her chest rose and fell double time into his as she felt his hardness twitch against her lower belly under his khaki pants. Understanding that her actions were intentional, he exhaled on a low groan, crushing her lips with his, tightening his arms around her as she arched against him.

Leaning up on tiptoes, she wound her arms around his neck and he drew her closer to him, plunging his tongue into her mouth where she welcomed it with hers. She moaned softly as a million butterflies beat their wings against the walls of her chest, and deep inside she felt a gathering, a liquid heat as her muscles contracted and released, preparing for more, priming themselves, letting her know that someday soon they’d be ready.