"Christine," I say, my voice rougher than usual.
"Yes?"
"Come home with me."
I'm asking for more than just her company. I'm asking her to take a leap of faith, to trust me with her body and her heart even though we've barely scratched the surface of knowing each other.
I expect her to hesitate, to make excuses, to suggest we take things slower. Any rational woman would.
Instead, she nods.
"Yes," she says, so low I almost miss it.
"Yes?"
"Yes. I want to come home with you."
The bear rumbles its satisfaction, and I have to close my eyes for a moment to keep from shifting right here in the restaurant. When I open them, Christine is watching me with a mixture of desire and nervousness.
"Are you sure?" I ask, because I need to know she's choosing this, choosing me, with full knowledge of what she's agreeing to.
"I'm sure." Her cheeks are flushed, but her voice is steady. "I've never been surer of anything in my life."
I signal for the check, my hands not entirely steady. The waiter appears with record speed, and I throw down enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip without bothering to count it.
"Ready?" I ask, standing and offering her my hand.
She takes it without hesitation, and the bear settles contentedly as we walk out of the restaurant together, finally satisfied that we're taking action.
The drive back to Cedar Falls is torture. Christine sits in the passenger seat, my jacket draped around her shoulders, and every breath she takes fills the cab with her scent. She's nervous.I can smell it under the arousal, but she's not changing her mind. If anything, the tension between us is building with every mile.
I keep my hands on the steering wheel, but it takes every ounce of self-control I possess. The bear wants to touch her, to claim her, to make sure she understands exactly what she's agreeing to. But I force myself to wait. She deserves better than being pawed at in a truck cab.
"Tell me something," she says suddenly, breaking the charged silence.
"What?"
"Tell me something else no one else knows about you."
The request catches me off guard. "Like what?"
"I don't know. A secret. Something that matters to you but you've never shared with anyone."
I think about it for a moment, sorting through the layers of secrets I carry. The biggest one—what I am—is obviously off limits. But there are others, smaller truths that I've never voiced.
"I'm afraid," I say finally.
"Of what?"
"Of being too much for you. Of wanting you so badly that I scare you away." I glance over at her, taking in the way she's pressed against the passenger door like she's afraid of getting too close. "Of hurting you."
"You won't hurt me."
"You don't know that. You don't know what I'm capable of when I lose control."
"Then don't lose control."
If only it were that simple. But the bear doesn't understand human concepts like restraint or patience. It only knows what it wants, and what it wants is her.
