“How do you feel about this?” I ask. “I mean, this is crazy, right? What are the odds?”
“It’s a wild coincidence, but that’s all it is. A coincidence.”
I blow a puff of air between my lips. “Bennett, this is big. This is so much bigger than either of us can—”
“Come on.” He tilts his head. “I’m glad you got to have your little moment, but let’s not go assigning some deeper meaning to it.”
“My little moment?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, gathering my thoughts as I take in the assortment of decorative objects placed perfectly along his coffee table. Objects a decorator probably chose for him, objects that probably mean nothing to him because the man lives a life void of meaning of any kind, because meaning makes you feel things and feeling things terrifies him.
“Are we back to this?” I ask. “The apathetic, condescending one-liners?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure?” I turn to him. “Because I need to know if I’m dealing with Jekyll or Hyde right now.”
“Stop.”
“Seriously, Bennett. I’ve never met anyone this hot and cold in all of my life, and I’ve met some reallllly special individuals …”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just … I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“And how would that happen?”
He frowns. “I don’t want you thinking that I’m some second coming of this guy, a second chance to be with him again.”
I rise. “Do you hear yourself? That thought hasn’t so much as crossed my mind once. I’m not delusional.”
He peers up at me, silent. For once, I wish he’d let me into that head of his. I’ve managed to coax bits and pieces here or there, but I imagine the deepest truths are still locked away.
“Everything last night …” I pace the area in front of his fireplace. “After I got back from running those errands … that was about you having Trevor’s heart?”
He doesn’t confirm nor deny.
“I guess I don’t understand how that changes anything,” I say. “Did you think I’d be angry?”
“No.”
“Did you think I’d project my love for Trevor onto you?” It’s a wild theory, but I present it anyway.
His jaw divots. “Something like that.”
“I would never. Just so we’re clear. There was only one him,” I say. “And there’ll only ever be one you.”
“Did you know the average life expectancy after a transplant is nine point sixteen years?” His blatant change-of-subject slices through the room.
Swallowing, I nod. “I do know that. I spent all of last night getting my hands on every piece of information I could because I wanted to know what you were up against—so I could be up against it with you.”
“All right, say I’m one year down with eight to go—is that something you want to attach yourself to? After everything you’ve been through? After everyone you’ve lost?”
“So that’s your reasoning behind pushing me away? You want to keep me from getting hurt?” I stop pacing and rest my hands on my hips. “Because if you ask me, I think it’s the other way around.”
“Don’t be such a goddamned martyr, Astaire.”
“Don’t act like such a saint, like you’re pushing me away because you have my best interests at heart.”
“What makes you think this is about me?” he asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“Honor.”
I think back to that Sunday at the toy store, when I offered my help in any capacity. “So you think that if things go south between us, I won’t be around for Honor?”
“You never know.”
“I can’t believe you’d actually think that. If you had any idea how much I adore that little girl … She’s got me for life. Say the word and I’m there.”
“Sometimes people have good intentions,” he says. “And other times life gets in the way.”
“Wow. Okay.” I grab my bag off the coffee table and fling it over my shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. I have a headache from beating my head against your brick wall of a personality for the past half hour.” I march to the door.
Bennett follows, though it’s unclear if he’s walking me out or attempting to stop me.
Turning to him, I laugh through my nose and offer a bittersweet half-smile, “You know, I was actually starting to fall for you. Butterflies, daydreams, all that good stuff that you probably know nothing about. I could see the good in you when you couldn’t even see it yourself, and I felt honored that you were letting me in because I get the impression you don’t do that too often. Like an idiot, I thought it meant something.”
I shrug.
“But it turns out it meant nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I continue. “Because you’re still as heartless and miserable as you were the night we—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence because suddenly my back is pressed against his door and his lips are claiming mine.
Thirty
Bennett
* * *
She melts against me, a sweet surrender, and her mouth is fire-hot.
I cup her face in my hands, my fingertips tangling in her silky blonde hair as her cinnamon tongue dances with mine.
Everything she said tonight was right.
Every. Fucking. Thing.
Sometimes talking to her is like looking into a mirror that only shows you the deepest parts of yourself, the parts you don’t want to look at even though you know they’re there. It’s uncomfortable. Painful at times. But in thirty years, I’ve yet to meet a woman who can take one look at me and see all the pieces no one else can see.
We stumble backwards, making our way to my bedroom, clothing falling off in layers leaving a trail from the foyer.
Cashmere lips. Honeyed tongue. Crystalline soul.
I can fight it all I want, but Astaire is a delicacy.
If I let her walk out of here, I know I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
There would never be another her.
There could never be another this … whatever this is.
We haven’t a shred of clothing by the time we get to my room, and I all but toss her in the center of my bed, climbing over her and stealing tastes of every divot, curve, and indentation on her soft, sweet body starting at her mouth … working down her jaw … stopping at her collar … taking my time between her swollen breasts … dragging my tongue down the center of her caving belly until I settle between her thighs.
I lift her legs over my shoulders and drag my tongue along her wet seam.
She grabs a fistful of bed sheets, releasing the quietest moan.
For the past month, I’ve wanted nothing more than to break her, to shatter her sweetness, because it only reminded me of my own weaknesses. I hated her for being soft. And I wanted her to hate me back.
I circle her swollen clit before tasting her again, and her body shudders against the bed in response. Sliding two fingers inside her, I stroke her g-spot and continue to devour her velvet pussy.