Royally Matched (Royally #2)(38)

And I want to kiss her, right now.

And then I want to go back to the library, to that place she loves, and kiss her there too. In front of her friends, in front of mine . . . Christ, Nicholas would adore her.

I want to be that man to her.

She catches me staring and tilts her head. “What is it?”

And my mouth suddenly goes dry. Because I’ve never done this before. The only time I’ve talked about feelings with a girl involved direction or appreciation and a whole lot of screwing: harder, tighter, faster, yes that’s good, just like that—don’t stop.

I try to swallow and my voice comes out low and rough, like an unpracticed lad in the schoolyard.

“I like you, Sarah. I like you so much.”

She continues to look at me, and I see when comprehension darkens her big, round eyes.

“I . . . I like you too, Henry.”

She watches as I pick up her hand from where it rests on the bed and bring it to my lips. Softly, I kiss the back of it and each of her little knuckles. Even her hands are fucking pretty.

Her breath catches when I turn her hand over and place an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her sensitive wrist, suctioning just slightly.

And then, I need her mouth. I can’t remember the last time I needed anything so much.

Maybe I never have.

I lean in and Sarah’s eyes flutter closed. I stroke her smooth cheek, and cup her jaw in my palm, and then I press my lips against hers. She’s so soft and warm, so fucking sweet. I angle my mouth and turn our heads, changing direction—sucking the smallest bit of her plump lower lip, then tracing it with my tongue.

And that’s when she pulls away, turns her head, and looks down at her hands. Sarah’s breathing hard and her cheeks are flushed, and she looks beautiful.

And then . . . it all goes to bloody hell.

“I can’t do this with you, Henry.” She gazes down at the bed. “I can’t be with you.”

“You’re with me right now.”

She shakes her head. “Not in that way.”

“Of course you can. I think you’re amazing.”

She looks up at me then, with fear and sadness slashed across her face. “You do now, but you’re a Willoughby.”

I scratch my head. “Isn’t that like, a kangaroo?”

She squeezes her eyes tight and it’s almost like she’s stuttering. Like she can’t make the words come out. And when they do, I wish they’d stayed where they were.

“No, a Willoughby—from Sense and Sensibility. He was the character Marianne fell in love with. He was wild and inappropriate, selfish and thoughtless, and he crushed her.”

“Sarah, you’re not making any sense.”

“I can’t be with you because I’m waiting for a Colonel Brandon.”

“Who the fuck is Brandon?”

“He’s serious and maybe a little boring, but he loves Marianne. He’s dependable and steady, romantic and proper. That’s what I want; that’s who I’m supposed to be with.”

“Proper?” The word sticks in my throat like a thorn. I slide off the bed and pace, going over her ramblings. “Let me make sure I have this right: you can’t kiss me because some wanker from a book named Willoughby fucked over some other girl from a book named Marianne?”

She gives a little huff and wags her hands. “When you say it like that, it sounds mad.”

“That’s because it is mad!”

Sarah twists her hands together. “He broke her heart. It almost killed her.”

I look down at her, feeling something breaking inside my own chest.

“And you think I would do that to you?”

“I know you would.”

“Because I’m a Willoughby?”

Her chin jerks in a nod.

“Because I’m thoughtless and selfish and just don’t measure up. And because you’re waiting for someone better to come along.”

Sarah shakes her head. “This isn’t coming out right.”

There’s a different kind of pain when you’re injured by someone you truly care about. It runs deeper, hurts longer, like a burn—it starts off stinging and smarting, then it blisters and spreads inside you, eating away at tender flesh.

Leaving in its wake a gaping hole.

I cross my arms and smirk, like I don’t give a flying fuck about anything.

“How’s the view from that ivory tower, Sarah? Must be lovely judging everyone beneath you, while keeping yourself too high to touch.”

She rises to her knees on the bed. “It’s not like that. I care about you, it’s just—”

“I’m selfish and irresponsible and inappropriate—I heard you the first time. You could’ve saved yourself all those syllables and just called me a dick.”

“Henry . . .”

“I think you’re a coward. See what I did there? Simple, concise.”

Her eyes snap up to me. She blinks and glances away.

“I’m not a coward. I just . . . like my life how it is. I like . . .”

I wander over to the “nook” and grab the first book I see. “You don’t have a life. You hide in this room and you cower behind these books. It’s fucking sad.”

Sarah’s voice is gentle, but staunch. “I realize I’ve hurt your feelings, but there’s no need to be cruel.”