Love Song(84)

A ribbon of warmth unfurls inside my chest. When he looks at me like that…when his voice gets rough and smoky like that…I can almost convince myself that he’s falling in love with me.

But I know that’s just a foolish dream. Wyatt doesn’t do love, at least not the kind of love that I want. He craves the love he can sing about, the love that comes with pain and angst and heartache. I’d never say this to him, because I worry he’ll take offense, but part of me believes that’s the real source of his commitment issues. Why he can be so present during sex, so emotionally connected, only to run away afterward. Because I suspect he’s not running from something—he’s running to it. He wants to feel the tragic, soul-crushing emotions that come from a love denied.

I want the love that I can feel safe in. I might’ve joked about me being the one to break his heart, but we both know that isn’t true. If anyone’s heart is getting shattered, it’s going to be mine when he leaves me. When he finds a new muse. A new girl to sing about. A new girl to gaze at with those hooded eyes when he’s moving inside her.

My chest clenches painfully. I don’t want him to leave me. I want to stay with him in this room forever.

“Keep going,” I urge when I realize he’s no longer singing.

“Those are all the lyrics I’ve got right now,” he says absently. “The rest will come.”

“Do you think this lighthouse song is the one? The song?”

“I don’t know.” He’s pensive. “It might be.” He’s still watching me. “Get on your back.”

I do what he asks, because, well, because I want to. Not just to please him—I know anything we do in here will make me feel good.

His eyes trail over my naked body, eliciting pinpricks of heat.

“Squeeze your tits,” he says softly.

Swallowing, I cup my breasts, giving one nipple a light pinch that sends a jolt of pleasure through me. Wyatt continues to play a slow melody on the guitar, but his intense gaze never leaves me.

“Move your hand between your legs. Play with yourself.”

I lower my hand to the juncture of my thighs and strum my clit while he strums his guitar. Pleasure skates through me as I tease myself, touching myself for him.

A lock of hair falls onto his forehead, but he doesn’t push it away. He keeps playing. Keeps watching me. My hips rock faster, chest rising and falling as my breathing quickens. He knows I’m getting close, because his eyes smolder.

“Give it to me,” he says.

My fingers swipe over my clit, stroking, pressing harder, but it’s not enough. Because we just had sex, and my body knows it can feel so much better if he’s involved. As good as this feels, it’s like eating one small dish when there’s a whole buffet in front of you.

“Give it to me,” he repeats.

“Take it from me,” I say, and his eyes flare with desire.

He pushes the guitar aside and then he’s crawling toward me, his bare chest and strong shoulders hovering over me. Two long fingers slip inside my pussy. He pushes them in deep while I rub my clit, and a moment later, I come with a sharp cry, my inner muscles contracting around his fingers.

“There you go, freckles. You’re squeezing my finger so tight. You want my cock again?”

“Please,” I beg, and then he goes to get a condom and we’re off to the races again.

Afterward, we find ourselves in yet another position on his bed. Now I’m the one reclined against the stack of pillows, Wyatt’s head in my lap. His eyes are closed, breathing steady as I gently stroke his hair. I watch him in slumber, my throat tight with emotion. I let him sleep, because it’s such a rare occurrence for him.

I lie there and think about how much I don’t want this to end, even though I know it’s inevitable. We agreed it would be.

But he’s here now, and as long as he is, I want nothing more than to keep feeling this pure, unfettered contentment as Wyatt Graham sleeps in my arms.





Chapter 29


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I COME DOWNSTAIRS THE NEXT morning to find breakfast on the eat-in counter. And not just any breakfast. A stack of golden, steaming pancakes ringed by fresh berries and a drizzle of syrup. Beside the plate is a mug of coffee, a tall cup of OJ, and a candle.

“What is this?” I exclaim.

Wyatt looks up from the stove, spatula in hand.

“Happy birthday,” he says gruffly.

Joy explodes in my chest. This is… I can’t even… Embarrassment floods my cheeks when my eyes well up. Oh my God. I cannot cry. That’ll only give the impression that I’m starting to see this thing between us as something more.

And I’m not.

Not really.

No matter how much Annaliese teases me, I am not in love with him. The only reason I’ve got tears in my eyes right now is because I’m touched. This is a sweet, thoughtful gesture, and I’m touched. That’s it.

Despite my vehement internal monologue, my heart flutters treacherously, and I’m blinking a bit too fast as I approach the counter.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I tell him.

“Of course I did. It’s your twenty-first birthday. Now sit down and eat.”

I plop down on a stool and reach for the fork, but before I can cut into the pancakes, I notice they’re dotted with tiny dark-brown spots.