Page 122 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“Liza, wait.” I almost lose my resolve when I look up into her eyes—wide pools of chocolate brown. “When we . . . do this, I want to soak in every single bit of you. To spend time with you. Time on you.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“But now isn’t the time, and here isn’t the place.”
When she realizes what I’m saying, she climbs off of me and scoots back, pressing into the corner of her seat, her arms clutched over her chest. I’d do anything to take away the hurt I see in her eyes.
I grit my teeth and reach for my T-shirt. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I can’t believe you are either. I didn’t think you’d reject me before you got me naked.”
“Liza, listen.” I focus on what I need to say. “Look at me.”
She does.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with rejection, or how much I want to be with you. I don’t want anyone—especially you—to think this is some kind of conquest. I leave tomorrow, for three days. If I can’t see you, or touch you, you might doubt me. Doubt us. And I definitely don’t want the first time we . . . make love . . . to be in a car. In a public parking lot. I want more than that. A lot more.”
“You realize you’re making me want to take off the rest of my clothes, right?”
All I can offer in reply is another groan.
“So we’ll stop.” She tugs her tank over her head as she stares out the windshield. My stomach sinks a little.
“We’ll stop.” I slide my arms t
hrough the sleeves of my shirt.
“Wait,” she says. “Make . . . love?”
I finish putting on the shirt and take a deep breath. It’s now or never, Benny. Don’t strike out.
“Love.” I reach out to take her hand, keeping my focus on the windshield, too. “I think. I haven’t been waiting for you this long for it to be anything else.”
We sit for a moment, hand in hand, just breathing.
“I think the feeling could be . . . is . . . mutual.”
“I’m glad that’s covered, then.”
She turns to face me. “Well, if you won’t make love to me—”
“Right now.” I meet her eyes.
“Right now.” She smiles. “The least you can do is kiss me senseless before I go inside.” She runs a finger along the neckline of her tank top, focuses on my mouth. “Is that a problem, player?”
The wait might be the death of me. Or it might be the best part.
“No.” I start for her lips. “No problem at all.”
About the Author
MYRA McENTIRE lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband and two sons. You can visit her online at www.MyraMcEntire.com
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
This Is My Sign
HANNAH MOSKOWITZ
