One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(45)
Bass thrumming in time with my heartbeat, Cecelia approaches, and I lean over and push open my passenger door. The night breeze sweeps her scent through my interior as she buckles in.
Nostrils flaring, I tighten my grip on the wheel, furious with my inability to ignore the pull. I cut off her attempt to greet me by tearing out of the parking lot. Her musical laughter rings through the cabin as I race toward the Meetup. Feeling every second of the attraction-induced chemical high, my earlier warning to Sean reverberates, striking me differently. Within the span of an hour, her perception of me will be altered—if not changed altogether. Just as I think it, she turns down the radio in search of some truth.
“Are we ever going to have a real conversation?”
Not possible.
“We had one not too long ago,” I remind her.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Want to start with politics or religion,” I muse, because what in the hell could I possibly tell her that rings sincere? Opting to give her some half-baked truth, I relay the ideal existence of a twenty-five-year-old mechanic. The man I might’ve been if I wasn’t on the brink of waging war on monsters—one of them her father. Briefly, I imagine a day of life without the club, a day filled with simple pleasures.
“Eggs—runny, coffee—black, beer—cold, music—loud, cars,” I floor the gas. She laughs out the rest. “Fast.”
“Woman,” I trail my eyes down her frame and feel her soften next to me due to the sentiment. When she moves to grip the hand resting on my gear shift, I pull it out of reach. “I save that for when I can do something about it.”
“And you think that’s affection?”
“Isn’t it?”
A pregnant pause as she realizes intimacy is not in my wheelhouse.
“What makes you happy?”
“All of the above.”
“Runny eggs and coffee make you happy?” She prompts, calling bullshit.
If only my life were that fucking simple. “What if you woke up tomorrow and there was no coffee?”
She frowns. “That would be tragic.”
“Next time you drink it, pretend it’s the last time you can have it.”
“Great, there are two of you. Is that some philosophy? Okay, Plato.”
My lips lift. “You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than you can in a year of conversation.”
Sensing the familiar heaviness on my profile, I glance over. “I was raised to appreciate the small shit.” The understanding in her expression only has my need ramping up to get closer.
Because I do want her, but the reality I exist in makes that an impossibility. The current continues to thrum between us as knowledge batters me that once we reach the end of this drive, both the bliss and temporary peace I’ve found with her—in her—will most likely be snatched from my grasp. Making a rash decision, I turn onto a dead end that leads to a small clearing. Killing the engine, I’m struck stupid by the sight of her staring wistfully through the windshield up at the half-moon. Her lit profile has my fingers itching to run through her flame. Leaning over with a, “come here,” I grip her hips and pull her to straddle my lap. Sinking in my seat, she surrounds me while I immerse myself in the temporary high, flexing my fingers through her silky hair. Lips painted red, and eyes shrouded in black, she stares back at me, temptation personified.
When she dips, it takes some effort to deny her kiss, but I do, knowing I don’t have the luxury of time to lose myself. As she pulls away, her beautiful features twist in confusion. I’m just as confounded as to why I spent two days convincing myself that allowing our pull to overtake me to the extent it did at the lake was a one-time high.
“He likes the red,” I offer in shit excuse, which serves as a reminder to us both. Guilt mars her face at that reminder, and it’s then I know she’s fighting her own battle—a war with instilled morality. Her next question proves as much. “How long have you known each other?”
The uneasiness emanating from her has me running my palms up her back as my traitorous cock starts to harden, giving absolutely no fucks about my stance where she’s concerned. “Most of our lives.”
“That close?” She asks, rocking atop the bulge growing beneath her, gauging the heated warning in my eyes.
“We’re all close.”
“Apparently so.”
The rumble of approaching engines cut through the night noise, serving as a reminder that I’m on borrowed time. Cecelia glances over my shoulder as they fly by. “They’re leaving us.”
“We left them,” I correct, my palms hastening up and down the material covering her back.
“And we left them because?”
“Because,” I lift to kiss her—because I fucking want to—and stop myself just before impact. Eyes closed in wait, her fast, anticipatory exhales hit my lips as all replies die on my tongue.
Because in minutes, you’ll be fully aware of the level of deception we’re capable of, and your moral dilemma about being shared will be a non-issue.
Because once you do know, you’ll distance yourself far beyond either of our reach.
Slinking back into my seat, she opens her eyes to find me smirking in satisfaction. She wants me just as much.
“You’re an asshole.”