The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3)(113)

I frown again and he takes my hand and runs it down over his rippled abs, and lower into his shorts.

We stare at each other, my breath catches, and I feel his pubic hair and then hard cock; my hand closes around it instinctively.

“Let me love you,” he whispers. He kisses me softly and I screw up my face against his.

He kisses me again and rolls me onto my back as he leans over me, and I feel his body up against mine. “Stop,” I whisper. “Daniel, stop.” I sit up in a rush and pull away from him.

What the hell?

“I don’t want this; my body isn’t even mine to give to you,” I stammer in a panic. “It’s Elliot’s.”

“He’s with another woman, Kate, he’s not coming back for you. They’re probably making love right now.”

I wince as I get a visual.

“I’m trying to help you,” he whispers.

“You’re trying to sleep with me.”

“To make you forget him.”

“Please . . . don’t.”

He gets out of my bed and puts his hands on his hips. “I was trying to help you.”

I turn my back to him and stare at the wall. “I know.”

He sits on the chair in the corner. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

I nod, grateful that he isn’t leaving but he’s out of my bed. I would have never forgiven myself . . . not that it matters to anyone anyway, I guess.

But I would know.

I wasn’t lying—my body belongs to Elliot, whether he wants it or not.

I sip my coffee in a crowded café on a Sunday morning. I got up early and went to the gym; I have a chocolate muffin in front of me and I’m feeling a little better today. I had a talk with Daniel and I believe him, he was just trying to be of comfort.

And maybe on some level I should have done it, maybe it would have helped me to move on and forget him.

I hear the familiar ding of my phone and my blood runs cold.

Ed.

I ignore it for a moment, and it dings again.

I don’t want to talk to Ed, because I know he’s going to tell me about her.

I’m cutting ties with him too.

I’m sick of all the fucking lies. No more charades, it’s obvious I can’t handle this game.

It dings again and I close my eyes.

Go away.

With a shaky hand I lift my coffee to my mouth. It dings again.

Fuck it.

May as well get this over with . . .

I take out my phone and click on his message.

Hi Pinkie,

Sorry I haven’t been in touch, I’ve been busy.

I’ve missed you.

His sweet words open it all back up, emotion overwhelms me, and the tears I so gallantly told myself that I no longer had, appear once more.

I go to type but everything is blurred so I put my phone down on the table and angrily swipe them away.

No, I have to know.

I type:

How is your artist?

A reply bounces back.

I don’t care.

I frown and write:

Why?

Because, she’s not you.

What?

What are you talking about?

I love you . . . Pinkie . . . or should I say, Kate.

My eyes widen and I sit back in my chair—what the hell is going on here?

Are you going to eat that chocolate muffin, or will I?

I look up and Elliot is sitting at a table across the café; his eyes search mine as he gives me a soft smile.

And something snaps inside of me and I’m furious and I hate him, so I stand and march out of the café and down the street.

“Kate,” he calls as he runs after me. “Kate, come back here.”

I don’t want to hear his lies, I don’t want to be anywhere near him.

I walk quickly across the road to the park, needing to get as far away from him as I possibly can.

“Kate.” I can hear his voice getting closer.

I get to the park and I run.

“Kate,” he cries as he takes chase. “Kathryn, stop.” He grabs my arm and I turn and take a swing at him.

“Get away from me,” I scream like a maniac through tears.

He pants as he tries to catch his breath; his eyes are wide. “I love you.”

“Don’t you dare say that to me!” I cry.

“I had to go,” he whispers. “I had to know.”

“And now you do.”

“It’s you.”

“It took you a week in her bed to find that out?” I hiss.

“No.” He pauses as if choosing his words carefully. “There was no chemistry.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel special . . . you fucking asshole?” I cry.

His chest rises and falls as he gasps for breath.

“Should I feel flattered that you didn’t feel something?”

His shoulders slump.

“You are always going to be this person, Elliot,” I whisper through tears as I take a step back. “You are always going to want the fairy tale . . . the artist or the dancer . . . the singer.” I screw up my face in tears. “You want extraordinary.”

“You are,” he whispers.

“No, I’m not,” I cry. “I’m just a hot piece of ass that you happened to like in a netball dress.”