Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(25)
“Elise,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek, then sliding them to the soft skin under her ear, which he nipped and kissed, his teeth taking the lobe of her ear gently as his hands slipped under her shirt to flatten against the warm skin of her back. “What are you doing to me?”
She took a deep, ragged breath, closing her eyes as his lips rested on her throat, her fluttering pulse beating against his lips, telling him that everything he felt, she was feeling too. He backed her up two steps until the tree across from her brownstone was behind her, and his soft, black hair rested against her cheek. He traced a trail with his lips from her pulse to the base of her throat, kissing her softly as she let her head fall back and eyes open.
Through the branches of the tree overhead, she could see the lights on in her apartment and her heart plummeted. Neve was home. She sighed, spreading her fingers in Preston’s hair and feeling sorry for herself. If Elise had to say goodnight to her delectable boyfriend, she’d rather go nurse her loneliness in dark peace and quiet. The last thing she wanted to do was make small talk with a roommate she never saw and barely knew.
“Good luck this week,” he murmured close to her ear. “Knock ‘em dead, okay?”
“I hope so,” she said.
Tomorrow Elise would be meeting Garrett Hedlund and Maggie Gyllenhaal for the first time and running through the show with them, and yes, she was nervous, but she knew the show cold, and over the last twenty days she had become very comfortable at Lincoln Center and with the cast and crew.
“You have to kiss him tomorrow?” growled Preston softly.
Elise grinned against his shoulder. “Are you jealous?”
“Hell, yes. I don’t want some damn movie star touching my woman.”
My woman. Her heart sang at his words, at the possessive edge in his voice. She wanted to belong to him. She wanted to be his woman.
“You don’t have to worry. There shouldn’t be any kissing tomorrow,” she said, turning her neck to smile against the skin of his throat, before pressing a tiny kiss against his pulse, delighting in his reflexive shiver. “It’s just a table read and a blocking walk-through.”
“Okay, then.” He relaxed, leaning into her, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “I hate saying goodnight.”
“Me too,” she said, cradling the back of his head and nuzzling his ear.
“You could…” he started, then stopped, sighing deeply. He raised his head and lowered his arms from her waist, then stepped back from her, looking frustrated, but determined.
There it was again—Preston pulling away from her. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t know what to do about it either. Even though she’d “played” sexual tension on stage, she finally understood it on a level she hadn’t before. It was when you were a magnet to another person, but you had to somehow keep yourselves from colliding.
“I could…” she prompted, almost wishing he’d ask her to come stay with him tonight. Would she go? How many more times could she bear to say no to him?
“Nothing,” he said softly. “Nothing. Do great tomorrow, huh?” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently. “I’ll see you Friday.”
“Okay,” she said, fighting herself not to loop her arms around his neck and pull him back against her body.
She saw it in his eyes, how much he hated to go, but he offered her a small smile before turning around and walking away from her.
“Pres,” she called after him, the word bubbling up from a place of want, a place of need, a place of new and uncertain and unexplored affection.
He turned to look at her, though he didn’t step closer.
“Someday soon…I will,” she said softly, feeling her lips tilt up into a smile as he stared at her intently from under a streetlamp six feet away.
He licked his lips, a grin spreading across his face as he nodded. “I can’t wait.”
Neither can I, she thought as he winked at her, then turned and started back toward the corner at the end of her block where he could catch a cab.
She sighed, hopping up the brownstone steps and turning the downstairs lock. For the first time since she realized the lights were on, she wondered why Neve was home. Neve was never home between six-thirty at night and three in the morning, unless it was Monday. Today was Saturday. On Saturdays she often didn’t come home at all, opting to stay at her boyfriend’s place downtown instead. She worked an eight hour bartending shift six nights a week at a popular club and during the day, she and her boyfriend practiced with their band.
Walking into the apartment, it felt different immediately and not just because Neve was home. In addition to Neve, her boyfriend, Frank, and their bassist, Chou, were in the living room, surrounded by brown boxes, Styrofoam packing eggs and masking tape rolls.
“Oh,” said Neve, looking up as the door slammed shut behind Elise. “You’re here. Good. We need to talk.”
“What’s going on?” asked Elise.
“Chou got us a gig.”
“That’s great,” said Elise, gesturing to the boxes and repeating, “but…what’s going on?”
“We’re relocating, Elise. I’m relocating. The gig is a three month, sixty-stop tour, all in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle, Portland...far-the-f*ck-away from Manhattan. Doesn’t make sense for me to keep this place. I paid up my share until the end of May, and the landlord said you’re more than welcome to take over the lease.”