He stares at me, the sunlight cutting across his face, enhancing his stupid male beauty. Why did I have to fall for a boy who’s so achingly gorgeous? Just looking at him makes my heart hurt. Knowing what he’s capable of, the power he has over me, also makes me cautious.
Something I don’t want to share with him.
“I’m here. I want to be in your life. I don’t care what you did in your past, or what happened between you and your stepbrother.” He leans closer yet I don’t move. I’m too shocked by his declaration. We’ve never spoken of my past, nor has he mentioned what he read in my goddamn journal that is currently sitting in his hotel room. If I could burn that thing, I would. “I want you to come home with me.”
His tone is so earnest, his expression so raw and open, my heart cracks. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” His voice changes, just like that. Becomes deep and commanding, as if he won’t accept any answer but the one he expects. “It makes sense, Summer. Come home with me. Live with me in New York. You can study art history there. You can do whatever you want. You won’t have to work. You can sit on your knees all day and suck my cock continuously. I won’t complain.”
He grins.
I scowl.
His smile falls and he leans forward, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t come all this way for you to reject me, Savage. I expect you to come home with me.”
“You can’t just waltz into another country and demand I do what you tell me to,” I say wryly. “I have my own place with a lease I can’t break. I go to school. I have a job. Friends. Things I do every day that I enjoy. A routine I’ve made. I like it here.”
“Have you met someone? Is that it?” His expression turns fierce, and he tries to control it, but it’s no use. I see jealousy and fury war in his gaze.
“No,” I admit softly. “I’ve been too busy. And I…didn’t know if I could ever find someone to replace you and what we shared.”
I close my eyes the moment the words leave me, hating that I just confessed so much. Too much. I should never give him the advantage. He knows how to use it against me.
“Share,” he corrects, and I open my eyes when he slides his hand along my cheek, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to accept his soft kiss. “We still share it,” he whispers against my lips. “And I will do whatever it takes to make you forget anyone else has ever touched you.”
A shiver slips down my spine at the possessive gleam in his eyes. He pulls away from me, his hand dropping from my face, his fingers curling around the stem of his glass and bringing it to his lips. “It’s settled then,” he says once he’s swallowed.
“What?” I ask him.
“You’re coming back to the States with me.” His smile returns, triumphant now. “We’ll be married.”
I gape at him. “Married? Whit, we’re still young. I don’t want to marry you.”
“Why the fuck not?” He sounds offended.
“Because—marriage is so legally binding. It’s just a piece of paper. I don’t want it. Or need it.”
He watches me, just before he throws his head back and laughs. “Any other woman would die to marry me. They’d want that lock on my money. And here you sit, calling it a piece of paper we don’t need. You don’t want it.”
“I don’t,” I stress. “Marriage isn’t for us. Not yet.”
“There’s no one else for me,” he says, his blue eyes glowing. “No one else. Only you.”
I can’t find any words to say. To protest. No way to convince him otherwise, so I do the first thing that comes to my mind.
I settle my hand on his thigh and kiss his stubble roughened cheek, breathe in his familiar, unique scent. Despite everything, despite my wariness still, I want to believe Whit. I want him in my life, caring for me. Protecting me. We’d protect each other.
But he didn’t say the words I longed to hear, like declaring his undying love for me. I suppose it’s not about that with us. It’s about something else. Something different. Edgier. Darker.
Love shouldn’t be dark. All-consuming. That’s passion.
Obsession.
And won’t we eventually get tired of that?
Grow tired of each other?
“I should go home,” I tell him as he practically drags me into the lobby of his hotel after a late dinner at a very cozy, very expensive restaurant. I’d felt sorely underdressed in my flowery dress and cardigan, my bare face and messy hair thanks to Whit’s endlessly seeking hands. I saw the looks we received when we first arrived, the people at the tables staring down their noses at us.
They had no idea one of the richest men in the world was in the restaurant, and once the waitstaff realized exactly who Whit was, our service was impeccable. We sat at a table directly in the middle of the restaurant, the wine continuous, the food, endless. Rich and delicious, to the point that I couldn’t make myself eat another bite. Eventually, people figured out Whit was important, and by the time we left the restaurant, paparazzi was there, taking our photo.
It was shocking, finding them outside of the restaurant, waiting for us. Despite Whit throwing his hand up to block the photographers and me tugging my cardigan over my head, someone got a photo of me. With Whit. They’ll eventually put together who I am, and our past family connection.
And it could possibly turn into a frenzy with the tabloids all over again.
“No. We need to talk first,” Whit tells me as we walk across the lobby, every employee in the hotel nodding in his direction when he makes eye contact with them. An endless stream of, “Bon soir, Monsieur Lancaster,” follows his every step.
The beauty of the hotel, the man beside me, the dream-like quality of it all, can’t go on forever. Not for me. I couldn’t be so lucky. I need normalcy. Crave it. I want to sit in my small flat and sleep in my narrow little bed and go to class in the morning. I want to be reassured that my life won’t change just because he re-entered it.
This won’t last. I know him. I know myself. We want each other, but it becomes too much. It’s all-consuming. We will destroy each other.
Just like last time.
“Whit, please.” I clutch his arm as he guides me into the elevator and the moment the doors slide shut, he’s upon me, his mouth on my neck, his hands beneath the hem of my dress, hot fingers teasing my thighs.
“I’m never letting you go, Summer. Can’t you see?” He pushes me hard against the wall, grunting with the force, and I blink my eyes open, staring at his face, shocked to see so much emotion there. It’s as if it’s permanently etched into his skin, and I remember the Whit of old. The boy who would stare at me with blank eyes. Who looked at me as if I didn’t matter. Who would actually tell me to my face that I didn’t matter to him at all.
He’s gone. Replaced by a seemingly overly passionate man whose entire focus is on me and no one else.
“We can’t have this conversation right now,” Whit says.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not prepared.”
“Whit, you’re making no sense.”
“That’s all your fault, then.”