Page 28 of Love What's Left
A mouth made for kissing.
An image of this man from another time, well before this, flashes in my mind. He’d been sitting on a street bike, waiting for me on the tarmac of a small private airport. He’d given me a jerk of his head. “Climb on.”
I heard an innuendo in there, somewhere. “Is that code for something?”
He flipped up the visor on his helmet and raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but you’ll be on the back. If anything physical happens between us, it’ll be 97 percent you. Now, let’s go.”
That makes sense. “Wait. What’s your 3 percent? What can you do from the front?”
“Get on the bike, Walsh.” The words were a demand, but there was a teasing exasperation in it.
I huffed and climbed on, then shifted behind him, careful to keep my denim-covered thighs from touching his.
He turned slightly toward me and spoke over his shoulder. “You have to hold on to me. Can’t have you flopping around back there.”
I grabbed a handful of his jacket. “Ready.”
“You need to be more secure than that.” He extricated my right hand and slid itunderhis leather jacket, pressing my palm against his warm . . . hard . . . abdomen.
His black T-shirt and my thin leather gloves barely counted as a barrier between us. The intimacy bombarded me with sensation.HolyGodAlmighty. He was worried I’d fall?Thiswould make me fall. I’d go splat, boobs first, flat against his broad back, and die.
“Both hands for balance. I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt,” he said.
“I guarantee your sister doesn’t put her hands under your jacket.”
“Bronwyn has her own bike.”
I slid my left hand down, then back up and under, pressing against his lower abdomen—an abdomen that clenched into rock-hard ridges under my fingertips. A full-body shiver of lust rippled through me.
“Are you cold?” he asked solicitously.
“I’m fine.”
He reached behind him, one big hand on each side, and cradled my thighs from below. “Scoot a little closer, sunshine. Can’t let air get between us. It creates wind resistance.”
Okay, he was being a ridiculous flirt.
I slid forward anyway, plastered myself against him, and tightened my legs until I made contact with his.
He gave my thighs a light stroke and squeeze. “Good girl.”
Oh, God, I wanted this man.
I knew him in my past. I wanted him. He isn’t a stranger. And I’m nowhere near seventeen. I was a grown woman in that memory.
I stare back at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “My nose looks bad.”Does that flirty, sexy man from the bike mind?
“If it bothers you, you can get surgery to correct it once you have your strength back. But I don’t even see it when I look at you. What I see is my sunshine. Here. Alive. Getting stronger every day.”
I can’t be his. I’m not even my own. “I don’t have money . . . for a nose . . . job,” I say, more confused than bitter.
“You have more money than you could spend in five lifetimes.”
“Maybe you. Not me.”
“First, you’re good with money. You had a million dollars in your savings account before you even married me. Second, you’re too smart not to have had your lawyer create a prenup that looked out for your interests. Even if you leave me, you’re entitled to continue to live in the lifestyle you’re accustomed to.”
I’m anorphan from central Pennsylvania. What could I possibly be “accustomed to”? Mom died when I was three. And even before Dad died, I bounced between foster homes while he got sober, until the next time they took me, because his sobriety never lasted. His example is why I never touched drugs or alcohol. I’d never trust someone who drank at all. Now, I can’t trust myself.
