Page 152 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
“I like it,” he says.
Outside, the rain picks up, splattering the window. Holden slides his arm over my shoulders, tugging me into him, even with Kit right here.
I glance at him uncertainly.
He’s looking at me, but I can’t decipher that strange spark in his eyes. So many thoughts, swirling in the wind, and none of them are easy to read.
Even so, his embrace makes me tingle. Kit glances up at us and then turns back to the fabric, totally unimpressed.
She has to know something’s up. I can’t decide if I’m happy or terrified that she doesn’t tease us.
All that worry about what would happen when she saw us together dissolves into smoke. The warmth in my chest grows, fueled by the moment.
I never had this growing up, and now I can see the appeal.
Family.
And it goes to my head.
This messy room with my art and Kit’s fascination and Holden’s steady reassurance feels way too close to home. Who would’ve thought a man I couldn’t stand before could ever offerthis.
Even if it’s all in my head—and I’m sure it is—I’ll take what he’s sharing for a little while longer.
I’ll smile at Kit and talk through all the interpretations of this canvas. I’ll let big daddy touch me in subtle, innocent ways that feel downright dirty.
While the munchkin pushes her face close to the piece until she’s just a few inches away, I rest my head on his shoulder.
And I sink into the moment where the ominous chill from outside feels like it’s a thousand miles away.
That night,Holden worships me again, this quiet ritual that rips me apart a little more every time.
It’s tender enough to ramp up the heartache in every pulse as he kisses me softly.
Then not so softly at all.
There’s something heavy on his mind. Something he says with every thrust, every groan, every unspoken word.
When we finish, I roll over in his arms to face him.
Breathless and sated—for now—I reach up to trace his face with my fingers. Rugged, manly features I’ve come to know so well.
I don’t know when he etched himself into my head like a patina on bronze.
The sharp angle of his jaw.
The hard planes of his face.
The line of his nose and the soft, sweet cruelty of his lips.
How can it feel like you’ve known a man for eternity when you barely know him at all?
But I can read him now, even when he doesn’t like it.
And when I don’t know what he’s holding inside, like now, I wait with bated breath.
“Hey, old man,” I whisper.
“Hey yourself, brat.” His mouth curls a little under my fingers.
