Pretending that I didn’t care if Quincy loved me.
Pretending that I didn’t want the picket fence and the kid on my hip and the Thompson that followed my name.
Pretending that those girls were all bitches and I’d had real friends, but they’d just grown up and moved away or gotten lives, and that was fine because I had my books and my mama and lazy summer afternoons in the sunshine.
A pile of pretends and ignores and feelings that had been stuffed inside the dark marrow of my bones, and Cole Masten pulled them all out with just that sentence and that look and the pull on my neck and his kiss, soft and sweet, on my mouth.
No man in his right mind would cheat on you.
But a man in his right mind had cheated on me and it stung.
“You are incredible, Summer. I think you scared him with your beauty and your strength and that fucking incredible mouth. I think he felt insecure about it and found a woman who he felt superior to.” He kissed me again, harder this time, and I pulled at his hair, clutched at his arm, and felt a part of me, a part of that crack, close, all of the yuck leaked out. I wanted to ask if he meant it, if that was a line of Hollywood bullshit or his real thoughts, but when I pulled back to ask, when I came off his lips and saw the look on his face, I knew. I knew that he wasn’t full of it. And I realized, in that moment, in that look, that every feeling I had bottled up… my inner conflict of self-preservation—the push of hatred, the pull of attraction? He had it too. In his eyes searching mine, the emotion on his face, I saw more. More than just fairy dust attraction. Something deeper and fuller and more real.
I moved on his lap, repositioning myself to face him, straddling him, and I crossed my bare ankles behind him, on the porch floor, our faces close, his eyes closing when I trailed a finger across his lips. “I see you,” I whispered, and those green eyes reemerged, looking at me, his brow furrowing, and I traced the lines of it as well. “God, you put up a lot of layers of asshole to keep people out.”
“It’s not asshole,” he breathed, his mouth moving forward, burrowing into my neck, nuzzling at the skin, and he took a gentle bite, his hands cupping my ass and pulling me tighter to him. “It’s me.”
“No.” I shook my head slightly and lifted his face with my hands, pulling him in for one kiss and then pushing him away. “This is you. And you are perfect. I love this you.”
His breath stopped against my mouth, and he didn’t move, didn’t pull back. He thought that I was incredible and beautiful and strong but probably didn’t want this, and it took every bit of my strength to keep talking. “And I love your asshole self too. I think I’m addicted.”
“You?” he responded, his words coming out in a rush of air. “I haven’t stopped thinking about this.” He moved one hand lower on my butt and ran his fingers across the silk barrier of my panties, between my spread legs. That was what I got for straddling this man with a dress on. He did it again, his fingers pushing at the silk, pulling it against me, and he stared at me, his eyes hungry. “I haven’t stopped thinking about that, or this…” He pressed his lips to mine, his mouth eager and rough. “Or these…” His hands pulled my dress down and came back up my bare front, lifting my breasts, the image of them, in his strong hands, enough to make me grind a little against him, and he was hard, and I could feel it, and I wanted it but it wasn’t enough. “But most of all I am addicted to you.” He said the words softly and stared down at my breasts in his hands, my legs wrapped around his waist, my dress bunched at my hips. “I can’t stop. I don’t think I can ever stop.”
It wasn’t I love you. But when he wrapped his hands around my back and lifted me up, his butt pushing off the porch and onto the grass, his hands gentle when they lowered me to the ground… when he pulled down his shorts and lifted my dress, his body settling over me, his lips on my skin, his name a gasp from my lips when he pushed himself inside… it was, in that moment, enough. Having Cole Masten addicted to me was enough. Having him tell me that Scott was wrong and I wasn’t broken… that was more than enough.
CHAPTER 104
The power came on, at some point during the night. I heard Cole stand, heard the slide of wood as he shut the windows, then he was back in bed, with his hand sliding around my waist as he pulled me against him. I was naked, and his chest against my back was warm and comforting, his hand, cupping my breast strong and possessive. He gently kissed the back of my neck, and I smiled. He said something, but I didn’t hear it, sleep pulling me back under.
In the morning, I woke first, his arm hot and heavy against my chest. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains, and I blinked a few times at the alarm clock, trying to see the time. Ten fifteen. We’d slept late. I slid carefully out from underneath his arm and walked downstairs. Pulled on Cole’s T-shirt, abandoned on the living room floor, and my panties, which had somehow ended up on the stairs, then put Cocky in the backyard and laughed as he chased a squirrel, his chest puffed, wings flapping. Our leftover steaks were in the fridge so I tossed them in a skillet, heating them on low while I got out eggs and milk, stepping over Nerf bullets as I moved, my grin widening as I remembered our late night battle. I’d claimed the kitchen as my base, Cole had taken the dining room, and we’d played capture the rooster handkerchief. Afterward, when I’d run around, picking up bullets while swigging wine, Cole had mentioned a maid. Now, in the light of day, my eyes skipped over the carnage with a wince. I cracked the final egg in the skillet and heard Cole’s voice holler from upstairs.