She touched a palm to my cheek and studied my face as the music swirled around us. Her hand slid down to rest on my chest again, and I felt the weight above my heart as her expression shifted to doubtful. “Wes, after last time . . . How do I know you won’t regret saying this tomorrow?”
“I’ve been holding this in for so long.” I hated myself for hurting her, and I pulled her to me, needing to feel her and hoping she felt the truth in my touch. “I shouldn’t think about you as much as I do or count down the hours until I see you next. I shouldn’t want to kiss you again more than taking my next breath, but I do.”
She searched my face, but her palm didn’t leave my chest. “Wes . . .”
“I don’t regret saying it. I never will, but tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” I rasped. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance after pushing you away. I let other stuff get in my head, stuff that isn’t as important as you. If it’s too late, though, just tell me. It’s what I deserve to hear, but, Britta, you’re the one for me. I don’t want you to be my client. I want you to be my everything, because it feels like you already are.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I angled her face to mine, our breaths mingling, bodies tensed. The dance floor shifted as a recent pop song played, but I could only focus on my heart pounding. “It’s you. It’s been you since that first message, and it will be you until long after the last one.”
My lips brushed hers in a soft, slow sweep, and all the disparate parts of me—the hurt, the past, the guilt, the longing—all seemed to snap into place.
47
WES PRESSED ME to the wall of his living room after we stumbled through the door, his hands tangling in my hair and strong arms caging me, his body hard everywhere.
I pulled back to take a breath, watching him do the same. “God, Wes.”
His finger slid along my collarbone, sending jolts of anticipation through me as he slowed his pace. He drew in a ragged breath. “Your skin is so soft.” He dropped his lips to my shoulder, then kissed the path he’d traced moments before.
My breath stuttered, and I had to remind myself to inhale again.
“So sweet,” he murmured against my throat before trailing his lips up my neck. His fingers stretched at my back and pulled me to him, my body pliant and ready. His hand, always so warm, trailed lower until it rested on my ass, gripping and massaging through layers of fabric.
“Wes.” My voice was somewhere between a whimper and a gasp as my body flushed. His hands were everywhere, and his lips and tongue devoured my throat, lightly nipping and stroking in equal measure. I gripped his shoulders, the rigid line of his erection pushing against my stomach. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been touched like this in such a frenzied, wanting way that still felt like us, like love.
Every hard, hot sign pointed to the fact that I turned him on. I couldn’t think about anything else when his mouth was on mine, our tongues dancing together. I’d never seen him out of control, and it was hot knowing I did that to him, that I could drive him this wild.
He trailed his lips across my chest, dropping sweet kisses along the skin between the tops of my breasts. “I’ve dreamed about kissing you here.” His thumb ghosted over my nipple, and I released a raspy breath.
He pulled back and looked into my eyes, his palm cupping my jaw. His eyes were dark with arousal. It was Wes. Wes who pushed me to do one more mile, who cooked Thai food with me, who taught my nephew how to throw a spiral. Wes who had put so much into FitMi to make it a good company that helped people be happy. I had to tell him.
I placed my palm over his. “Wes, wait.”
He stilled immediately, confusion and concern painting his features.
Deep breath. Just say it fast. “I haven’t told you, but I work for a magazine and I’m writing about FitMi. I need you to know before we . . .”
“I had no idea that’s what you did, that you were writing.” His eyes widened, but he didn’t budge from my side. “You’re the journalist?”
“Well, I’m trying to be. This is my first break, but I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It’s . . .” I trailed off but examined his features while he processed my admission.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I mean, I’m surprised, obviously, but you’re getting to write just like you always wanted.” I hadn’t expected the smile, or for his voice to sound proud. If anything, he’d pressed closer. “Britta, that’s amazing.”