His thick brows dip in the middle. “What did you just call me?”
“Nate,” I say, lower this time, a little bit uncertain, a little bit scared. Because, holy shit, his deep, rough voice and the tightness in his body can be terrifying.
My thoughts are confirmed when he says firmly, with an authoritativeness that strikes me straight in my bones, “It’s Uncle Nate.”
“I don’t want to call you that anymore.”
“It’s not up to you to decide. It’s Uncle Nate, got it?”
I swallow at his non-negotiable tone and the firm edge to it. No wonder he’s a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom. If I were a criminal, I’d be on my knees right now.
Hell, I’d be on my knees even without the criminal part.
“Answer me, Gwyneth.”
“Yeah. Okay. Got it.”
He narrows his eyes at that and I know he hates it, my using two or three different terms for the same thing. He told me so once, to measure my words before letting them loose, but I’m not as disciplined or as assertive as he is. Never was and probably never will be.
But a part of me longs to be, because if I am, he’ll see me as a woman, not a kid.
A woman.
But instead of commenting on my words, he says, “Now go back to your birthday party.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Gwyneth,” he warns.
“I want a birthday present.”
“I already gave you one.”
“The bracelet doesn’t count, because it was picked out by your assistant.” I don’t actually think that at all, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He releases a breath. “What do you want?”
“Can I have anything?”
“Within reason.”
“You told me once that reason is subjective. That means what you see as reason is entirely different from what I do.”
“Correct.”
“Then don’t say I acted unreasonably, okay?”
Before he can form thoughts or theories, I grab the lapel of his jacket, flatten my breasts against his chest, and get on my tiptoes.
The moment my lips touch his, I think I’ve reached another level of existence—one I had no idea existed. They’re so soft and warm but have an underlying hardness like the rest of him.
I move my mouth against his closed one and even dart my tongue out to lick his lower lip. It’s hesitant and awkward at best, but I don’t stop.
I can’t.
God. He tastes even better than my forbidden fantasies.
He doesn’t open his mouth or kiss me back, and his entire body turns to granite against mine.
Since I’ve witnessed him box with Dad countless times, I know he has a body of steel, but actually feeling his abs contracting against me is an experience all on its own.
If I could stay here for a lifetime, I’d choose to in a heartbeat.
Hell, I’m ready to accept the inevitable bursts of emptiness if it means I get to live this moment over and over again. If I get to exist here for whatever remaining years I have to live.
However, my small moment of ecstasy is brought to a halt when I’m pulled back by a fistful of my hair.
I tilt my head back to keep it from pulling as I stare at his harsh eyes. There’s a savage darkness in them that matches the tightness of his fingers in my hair. It’s a black, deep current and I’m trapped right in the middle of it.
“Don’t ever do that again. Understood?”
My lips tremble and I can’t help licking them—and his taste. Nate’s eyes zero in on the gesture and a muscle tightens in his solid jaw. It’s such a small movement, but it feels so huge right now, so important.
“Say you understand, Gwyneth,” he says, still staring at my lips before he slides his gaze to my mismatched eyes.
“I-I understand.”
If I expected those words to placate him, they don’t. His jaw flexes one more time and he shoves me away, releasing his firm, delicious hold on my hair.
He shakes his head at me once, then turns around and leaves. His strides are long and sure, but there’s something different this time; like the tension in his shoulders.
I watch his back, licking my lips and fingering the bracelet, and a tear slides down my cheek as I murmur, “Happy birthday to me.”
Gwyneth
Two years later
“Dad!”
I run down the stairs and toward the front door, my sneakers slapping on the marble with each step.
At the sound of my voice, he stops and turns to me with a questioning gaze and a smile.
There’s always a smile on Dad’s face whenever he looks at me. Even when he’s mad at me, he soon forgets it all and smiles.