Page 77 of Written with Regret (The Regret Duet 1)
With my stomach in knots, I paced a path in my living room, watching the bottom of that text for over five minutes, but the bubble never appeared. So I decided to give it another shot because that was clearly a great idea.Me: You didn’t think I was talking about you, did you? HA! That would be crazy.I stared holes in that phone for another solid five minutes with no response. Dammit. He knew I was lying. Real shocker there.Me: Okay, look. I’m mortified. What will it take for you to forget this ever happened?I sank onto my couch and put my elbows to my knees. This couldn’t be happening. Not something so stupid and preventable. But no. I hadn’t sent Caven one accidental text that could be brushed off or explained away. I’d sent him the text version of an autobiography. Outlining in great detail all the bullshit that had been swirling in my head over the last few months.
I had no idea how he was going to react to finding out I had feelings for him. Based on the way he looked at me, I was sure he was harboring a few feelings of his own. But admitting it out loud and not in the middle of a lust-filled stare-off was a lot like accepting it. Three months ago, Caven had thought I was Hadley the Terrible. We’d come a long way, but now, I was expecting him to be able to look me in the eye every Wednesday and Saturday knowing If he ever kisses me, I’m not coming up for air. Possibly ever.
I could handle the rejection.
Hell, I was expecting the rejection.
But there was a very big, very real part of me that worried this would change things between us. What if he was uncomfortable or mad and went back on his deal to let me see Rosalee? That was the one thing I couldn’t risk. Yet there I was, staring at my phone, waiting on pins and needles, nerves rolling in my stomach for judgment day.Me: Please. I’m begging you. Put me out of my misery here.
Me: If you’re mad, I’ll totally understand. We can talk about it. I can explain. Just don’t take Rosalee away from me.The more I typed, the more frantic I became, the possibility of losing her sinking in until it felt like a foregone conclusion.Me: Caven, please. I take it back. I take all of it back. I’m sorry. Please just say something.My head snapped up when there was a knock at my door. It was past eleven and my elderly neighbors never braved the night.
It was him.
I could feel the hum in my veins.
Damn that fucking hum.
Steeling myself for the absolute worst, I stood up, and crossed the room, and while holding my breath, I opened the door.
It was the most disheveled I’d ever seen Caven. His button-down was untucked, his sleeves were rolled up haphazardly, and his hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through the top of it.
None of this made me feel any better.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, because what the hell else was there to say?
Silently, he stared at me, his gaze heavy and his jaw hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed before he licked his lips. “You should not have kissed me that night in the bathroom.”
I wrung my hands in front of me. “I know. I know. I know. And I—”
In a low gruff voice, he rumbled, “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
My shock or relief didn’t have time to register before he took a long step forward, his arm hooking around my hips. Dragging me against his chest, he crashed his mouth down on mine, hard and punishing, filled with all the desperation of a starving man.
Chills exploded on my skin as the start of every sexual fantasy I’d ever had played out in front of me.
It was Caven.
Caven Lowe.
Caven Hunt.
It didn’t matter.
It was just Caven, his mouth opening, his tongue sweeping with mine, his strong arms holding me tight against his chest. His heart pounded out a sweet and devastating harmony to my own.
Slanting his head, he took the kiss deeper, our lips sealing like puzzle pieces clicking into place. He tasted like nothing and everything at the same time, my senses too overwhelmed with the fact that he was there to concentrate on any one thing.
Not his velvety tongue tangling with mine, seeking control as he swallowed my surrender.
Not his hand sliding down my ass, my skin catching fire as he palmed one cheek, grinding me against his thickening cock.
Not the way his other hand gripped the back of my neck, his fingers biting into my flesh as he ravaged my mouth.
“Fuck,” he murmured, lifting me off my feet, my legs dangling as he carried me inside my house and kicked the door shut. He turned, setting me down while pinning me against the wall with his strong body. Nipping at my lips, he growled, “Tell me to stop.”
