Page 61

Brenton

I LOOKED AT MY BEAUTYon the bed. Air caught in my throat at the sight of her rounded shoulders, eyes downturned and focused on the hands clasped between her pressed thighs. Apprehension now rolled off her when moments ago, she’d joked about stuffing my dick down her throat.

Shit. I had to stop thinking about that, and mentally replaying what happened in the truck over and over. If I didn’t, my stiff cock would pop out of these damn jeans in search of the mouth she willingly offered up.

The night couldn't have gone worse. No doubt whatever happened between the two girls after we got there had to do with me, which sent Beks straight to the bar. Thank fuck she sat by the old man instead of the hundred assholes who were posted up watching her every move. Of course, she didn't notice all the eyes on her, but I did. Fuck, did I.

How in the hell did she go out and not get hit on every two steps? Maybe she did, which made the deepening feelings for her that much worse. Flying for the Night Stalkers required months away from home at a time. How could I leave a woman like her at home? It would drive me insane, wondering who was cozying up to her, only too eager to take my place between her legs.

That was another reason I knew I shouldn't tell her how I felt, or thought I felt, about her. We wouldn’t go anywhere with my jealous streak and inability to trust anyone around her. Which was fine. It wasn’t like I loved her. There was no way the gnawing in my gut or her always being on my mind was a signal of love. Not that I'd know, I guess. But no way love was the reason I couldn't focus when she was gone, or even when she was close. Or why the only time I smiled or laughed was due to her. Love wasn't the reason I was dreading two days from now when I had to head back to Kentucky.

It was all happening too fast. The feelings, the intensity, the desire for only her—ever. How could that develop after only a couple of days? Love didn’t happen that fast. Lust did.

It was lust. She was fucking beautiful, sexy as hell, plus that damn hilarious, crude mouth of hers. That was what attracted me. What I lusted after.

Attraction didn't mean love. It meant sex.

She knew I was leaving and understood it was a short-term thing.

I was fine.

I needed to get a fucking grip. She made me weak, and that was the last thing I needed.

“What do you mean like déjà vu?” she asked with a whooshed breath, like it took all her willpower.

Those soft brown eyes flicked up and found mine in the dark room. I took a single step, then another, needing to shorten the space between us.

“It means you, our past, us, now it’s all connected. I can't figure it out. You know how much I need control, and with you, the second you walk into the damn room, all the control I have vanishes.”

“What does that tell you, Brenton?” Hope lifted her tone and brightened her damp, sad eyes.

No, I wouldn't lead her on. Not again.

“It means you're sexy as hell and I want to fuck you every time we're in the same room.”

Her eyes never left mine. “Is that all?”

“That's me, Beks. I'm a selfish, arrogant bastard.”

The disappointed shake of her head hurt worse than her friend’s hit to the balls.

“Right, I guess things never change.” She wiped her hands down her bare legs, drawing my attention before reaching up to tuck her long hair behind her ears. “This is only about your head thing and sex. Thanks for the reminder.”

The small, sad voice stole the air from my lungs.

“Beks....” I paused, not knowing what to say. No way in hell could I tell her the truth.

“It's fine, Brenton.” A broad, fake smile was planted across her face when she finally looked up. “So, what can I do to help? Want me to verify if some of the things you’re remembering are real or not?”

The relief that seeped in when she didn't press the topic further confirmed I was a selfish prick.

I shrugged and sat on the bed beside her. “I think after everything that happened tonight, I need to know that I never hurt you on purpose. And I'm not just talking about the wreck. I need to know I was a better man than my father. Maybe that I am a better man than my father.”

My eyes widened at the brush of her thigh over mine to slide on to my lap. After nestling her knees on either side of my hips, she gripped my face between her clammy hands.

“You were never and will never be your father. You hear me, Brenton Graves? You might share his last name and his DNA, but you are nothing, nothing like that awful man. Tonight was a complete accident, and still you felt utter shame. I saw it. I saw how defeated you were at the thought of me hurt because of you. And I know it’s not just me. It would be the same with any woman. You're not your father's son.”

I weaved my fingers into her hair and pulled her forehead to mine.