I close my eyes against the burn. It’s a losing battle. Tears singe my cheeks.
A hand covers mine, squeezing gently. Enough that I feel comforted from a man I should know better than to trust. Everything is upside down. My father has abandoned me. Asher Cook consoles me. I don’t know which way is up anymore, but I know one thing—the night isn’t over yet.
CHAPTER THREE
Cherry blossom season lasts a month, from the time the first to the last tree blooms. Each individual tree only flowers for a week.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up draped over Asher Cook’s body. I push myself up, palms against his chest, unable to ignore the hard shift of muscle beneath his soft white T-shirt.
We’re not well matched, him and I. He’s wearing jeans and boots. I’m in a limited-edition Gucci evening gown and low-heeled sandals I slipped on as we walked out the front door.
He’s made from muscle on top of muscle.
I’m slender and shaking.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, determined not to appear weak. “Where are we?”
He flips the key in the ignition. “My house.”
That’s enough to snap me awake. If I would have pictured Asher Cook’s house… I’m not sure I could have. He seems like he’d be at home among concrete and steel. Maybe some bricks in the background, stacked halfway up.
He fits into construction so well that it’s strange to imagine him somewhere fully built. Maybe I would have guessed someplace cheap, like a trailer park. I didn’t think of myself as a snob, but as I look at the rambling Tudor style home with ivy curling up the side, I’m forced to confront my own preconceived notions. This man has money—and what’s more, he has taste.
The house looks like something out of a magazine with its timber frame and diamond-patterned windows. Sunrays fold over the thatched roof, orange and purple and red, a bittersweet farewell.
Asher seems inured to the romance of the sunset. He acts brusque when he crosses the front of the truck and opens my door, business-like as he helps me down. Almost impatient as he leads me into the house, as if he regrets having me here.
That suspicion is confirmed when he hurries me through the darkened foyer and up shadowed stairs. A small room near the end of the hallway contains only a bed, its white lace coverlet such a sharp contrast to the man standing in front of me. “You’ll sleep here,” he says, his expression impassive.
There’s a finality to his tone, as if he’s saying goodnight.
It’s strange to feel disappointed that he isn’t going to have sex with me. My body still hums with the memory of his words, the frantic way that I rubbed myself while he watched.
“Is that… it?” I say, hoping I hide my dismay.
He reaches out a hand, fingertips soft against my temple, and I can’t help but jump. “You’re too busy being afraid of me to enjoy this, and I do plan on enjoying you, June.”
There’s a knot in my throat. It’s hard to swallow around it. “Oh.”
“I don’t suppose a little goodnight kiss would hurt, would it?”
The question doesn’t seem to need an answer. Not when his head lowers, blocking out the faint light of the moon. Not when his lips brush mine. Time slows down, so I can feel his soft breath against my lips, more gentle than a man his size has any right to be. I can feel the cushion of his lower lip. I let myself sink into him, without guilt or doubt. For this moment I push away the reason I’m in his house.
There’s only his silent request—let me in, open for me. And my acquiescence, parting my lips. Pleasure gives way to a soft moan. His. Mine. There’s surprise, that it could be like this. Chemistry? We have chemistry, but that’s only electrons and protons.
This is something else. Tenderness.
I’m the one who pulls back. I find my balance against a wall with priceless art I vaguely recognize from a museum benefit auction last year. It’s sacrilege to lean on a piece like this, to touch it with bare hands, to feel the brush strokes against my palm, but I’m incapable of holding myself up.
And I can’t trust the man in front of me, not one second more.
He stands where I left him, his expression one of bemusement. He touches his lower lip with two fingers. What does he feel there? My kiss? My naivete, most likely. How quickly I surrendered.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, his voice uneven.
“Me? You’re like two hundred pounds of muscle. What could I do to you?”
He rubs his jaw, looking away. “I guess we’ll see,” he murmurs. “Time for bed, beautiful.”
When this night began I never would have expected the flick of anticipation low in my belly. Asher has already proven he can make me enjoy this. The dates my daddy arranged? They never made me feel anything but duty. Certainly not this all-consuming fire that spreads and spreads.
