Before she lifted her shirt and bared all that silken, dusky skin.
Before she asked me to give her pleasure…and a little pain.
Before I found out for myself the size and shape of her nipple with my tongue.
But now? Now, I’ve spent every damn second warring to not drag her back into my room, stretch her out on my chair, and finish what she invited me to take. Need, hard and ruthless, squeezes my chest, grips my dick. For the hundredth time tonight, I consider turning around, walking out, and not returning. I’ve never backed off from anything in my life—not taking up responsibility for my younger brothers after Dad died; not a fight against the biggest, toughest opponent; not purchasing and running my own business.
Eden has me in full retreat.
Because keeping my hands off her had been hell when she hadn’t twisted and moaned so sweetly, when she hadn’t demanded I kiss her. Now it’s a torture that would make interrogation by the Spanish Inquisition look like a game of Twister.
It’d been that breathless request that had snatched me back to cold, brutal reality. A reality where she was Connor’s wife, and I was the man who’d introduced him to the sport that had cost him his life. A reality where I had no right, where I wasn’t worthy to put my hands—or mouth—on her. A reality where a rage-and-grief-stricken accusation bound me to an oath I can’t break. Not if I don’t want to destroy a relationship that’s already dented and bent, almost beyond repair.
My reality.
“Well, I don’t know.” Simon holds his hands up, pretending to study them. “Knox did promise to paint my nails, sooo…”
She laughs in the way that’s strictly hers—a loud, joyous crack that sounds like thunder breaking across the sky. Connor used to say her laughter was God snorting. I’m not anywhere near that damn poetic. But yeah, my little brother might’ve had something there.
Simon strides down the hall and swoops Eden up in a bear hug, her feet dangling above the floor. There’s nothing sexual about the embrace, yet as her giggles reach me, I still want to tear down there, grab her out of his arms, and pull her into mine.
Instead, I wait until they both disappear into the living room. Only then do I follow. Taking my time. Preparing myself for the evening ahead. Between pretending everything is normal between Eden and me, bearing Mom’s silent accusation and disappointment, and bracing for Eden’s upcoming announcement, I wish I had something stronger than the wine served at every Sunday dinner.
Sighing, I scrub a hand down my face, my beard scratching my palm. As always, I pause and study the framed photograph of Dad and me in front of Wrigley Field when I was thirteen. And as always, a tight fist squeezes my heart as his big, booming laughter from that day faintly echoes in my head. It’s one of my happiest memories. Dad was a diehard Cubs fan, and we never missed one season opener. I haven’t been to a game since he died.
This picture used to hang on the wall at the old house. It says something about Dan that he allows photos of his wife’s first husband to be displayed so prominently. He’s a good man. I can admit that, even though we’ve never been close.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom calls, stepping out of the kitchen entrance. She catches sight of me, and after a beat of silence, nods. “Knox. I didn’t think you were coming today.”
Nothing in her voice telegraphs if she’s happy I showed up or wished I’d stayed away. There’d been a time when her face would’ve reflected every emotion tumbling inside her. Even Dad’s unexpected death hadn’t managed to douse her light, steal her joy. Dimmed it for a while, but hadn’t snuffed it out.
Connor’s death had accomplished that.
I missed the mother who laughed easily, teased with a soft smile, loved with a big heart instead of a shattered one. I haven’t seen that version of her in two years, and I mourn it just as much as I grieve for my brother.
“I hope it’s okay,” I reply. Once, that statement would’ve been unnecessary. And I would’ve received a pop for even uttering it.
“Of course,” she says and, turning, disappears into the kitchen.
Slowly, I exhale. This is going to be a long evening.
An hour later, seated at the dining room table, I felt like a clairvoyant. Hell, set up my own 900-number, assume a name and a fake accent, and I’d be in business.
Picking up the bottle of beer I’d found in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, I lean back in my chair, letting the hum of conversation flow around me. Dan shoots me a chagrined frown, and I shrug. Yeah, it’s one of the bottles he always keeps stowed away because he’s a beer man through and through. But sorry, that sweet Riesling Mom serves just ain’t cutting it. And hey, I didn’t touch the remaining three bottles in the vegetable crisper drawer.
“He went on and on about how smart Connor was. About how much they liked and respected him,” Mom says, continuing her story about bumping into a former college classmate of Connor’s at the bank. “Imagine, the Assistant Vice President praising him like that.” She shakes her head, her smile trembling as she blinks quickly. Battling back tears.
My chest tightens, and I look away. Not before Dan covers her hand with his and squeezes.
“Yeah,” Jude chimes in from beside me. “And he was never shy about letting you know just how smart, either. ‘Jude, dude, Occam’s Razor states that all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.’” Jude’s imitation of Connor’s proper, hint-of-frat-boy speech is dead on. I snort, lifting the beer to my mouth. “‘So if your girl’s car was parked in front of your friend’s building at 2 a.m., more than likely they weren’t binge-watchingGilmore Girls.’”
Laughter erupts around the table, and even Mom smiles, eyes damp. I can’t help but glance across the table at Eden. Maybe it’s some kind of masochistic punishment to see her face brighten at the memories of her husband. To glimpse the love and sadness in her dark eyes. I need both to remind myself who she belongs to. To emphasize that man’s not me. Could never be me.
As if she can feel my scrutiny on her, she shifts her attention from Jude, and our gazes meet. Or clash. My gut hollows out, as bottomless as the depths of those chocolate eyes. It’s like we’ve suddenly been cast in one of those soap operas that Mom watches religiously, and everyone else at the table fades away into a shadowed, hazy mist. Yeah, corny as hell, but I can’t deny that I don’t see anything else but the spray of Eden’s cinnamon freckles across her forehead, cheekbones, and the bridge of her nose. The sensual, sinfully full curves of her wide mouth. The delicate jaw and slightly pointed chin. The fall of her thick, black-brown hair over her shoulders, hiding her breasts from me. Doesn’t do shit for my thoughts, though. Without the slightest effort, I can still picture the rounded, perfect flesh that fit my hand as if created for it. Or the beaded tips the color of henna tattoos.
I curl my fingers into my palm, my skin retaining the imprint of her breast and nipple like a brand. What I wouldn’t give right now to have my cock experience that same heaven. To cup her, rub my thumb back and forth over the tight peaks while thrusting between that soft flesh. To have her tongue flick over the head at the end of every stroke…
Lust hammers into me harder than a double-fist punch to the chest. It burrows deep, hardening my body until even breathing threatens to crack me into pieces.
