Page 38 of Framing the Pitch (Red Dirt Romance #1)
Maybe I knew that saying yes to this whole thing was the push I needed to confront the feelings I had been hiding—even from myself—for years.
I’ve been telling myself that being Trace’s best friend was enough for me, even though I secretly wanted more.
But I never could muster the courage to lay myself that bare to him between his relationships, so I tucked it away and started dating someone else to get Trace off my scent, even though I knew those relationships wouldn’t last longer than a few months.
But I can’t lie to myself anymore. I can’t lie to Trace. He’s so much more than my best friend, I know that now…and I think he knows it, too.
“Do you love me?” I whisper, my voice hoarse from crying, and immediately, I wish I could take the words back.
They hang in the air, shimmering like my last day of hope in the darkness.
On one hand, I want to know the answer—I want to know if what I’ve been trying to hide from him over the last two months is more than just a hope—and at the same time, I don’t.
If this is where Trace turns me down, I don’t want to be here and listen to him say “No.”
Trace pulls his head back, and his palm cups the back of mine. There’s the slightest squeeze, asking me to raise my head, to look him in the eye. But I can’t .
“Naomi.” My name out of Trace’s mouth sounds like the softest, most desperate prayer, and against my brain’s better judgement, I lift my head.
Trace’s grip on the back of my head tightens as he slants his lips over mine.
It’s the Big Bang, the beginning of time, and the birth of a new star. A hundred thousand lanterns being released into the crystal clear night sky. An explosion of color I never thought possible.
Each press of Trace’s mouth—each stroke of his tongue against mine—is an answer to my question, an answer only my heart can interpret.
My fingers splay across his shoulders, reaching down to lay flat over the hard muscles of his back.
His arm around my waist tightens, bringing me closer than I’ve ever been to him, and yet, it’s still not close enough .
One hand finds its way into Trace’s hair, and as I slip my fingers between the silky blond strands, I let go.
I relax, and for the first time since leaving Texas, I’m not worried about what’s going to happen tomorrow or what my mom will say to me.
Every speck of my attention is on the man in front of me—the man I’ve loved for a very long time, and I’m finally allowing myself to admit it.
As I sink into Trace’s embrace, his hands shift, caressing my neck and face and sliding over my waist. Every nerve ending is alert to Trace’s touch, and I relish the fire that’s spreading through my limbs and racing toward my heart.
With every passing second, I let myself dive deeper into the depths that Trace and I have been shallowly exploring from the moment we said, “Let’s do it.
” Maybe I should be terrified that what I find is a gaping abyss ready to swallow me whole—feelings that were deeper than I ever acknowledged before—but with Trace here, guiding me in a kiss that’s sure to ruin me, the vastness of what lies beyond is only a promise of what’s to come.
Trace pulls away, his breaths short as he leans his forehead against mine. “Did that answer your question?”
I want to say “Yes,” but my ability to speak has disappeared, so I try to answer with another kiss, but Trace pulls back further to look down at me with a smile half-hidden in shadow.
“Let’s not get carried away, Sugar. Tomorrow is a big day, and if we keep going, I don’t know how much sleep we’ll actually get tonight.”
For the first time, Trace’s wicked smirk is aimed in my direction, sending a wave of heat through my body.
But it’s gone in a flash as he gently pushes me away, guiding me to take a seat on the edge of my bed.
I watch him while I wait for my brain to catch up to what just passed between us; he moves around the end of my bed to my suitcase, fishing out my pajamas—a matching set to his.
Trace sets them carefully on my lap, almost as if making sure not to touch me, even though his eyes are as tangible as hands as they rove over the purple cocktail dress I’m still wearing.
He sits down on the edge of his bed, our knees almost touching in the space between, and picks up his book again. “Go change. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
As if on auto-pilot, I grasp the soft t-shirt between my hands and go to the bathroom.
A wave of exhaustion hits me as I close and lock the bathroom door.
I drop my dress to my feet and slip on the comfortable clothes, not bothering with retrieving my dress, leaving it crumpled in a pile on the bathroom floor.
Trace is waiting next to my bed, plugging my cell phone into its charger for me, when I leave the bathroom. His smile looks nearly as tired as mine feels. As I approach, he sits back on the edge of his bed, his eyes fixed on me.
“Your bed or mine?” he asks.
I look between the two—my fresh, tightly tucked sheets and Trace’s semi-rumpled ones. “Yours.”
Trace extends a hand, which I take, and pulls me to the bed, smoothly scooting onto it while pulling me with him. I slip my legs between the soft sheets, allowing Trace to settle in behind me and slip his arm underneath my head, his bicep becoming the perfect pillow.
“Sleep,” he says, kissing the top of my head as my feet tangle with his and his free arm wraps around me, holding me tightly, like I’m something precious.
“Goodnight, Trace,” I whisper, reaching out to turn off the light .
In the darkness, Trace pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair. His chest rises and falls as he inhales deeply before mumbling, “Goodnight, Naomi.”
Within moments, Trace’s breathing evens out and deepens, his chest brushing my back with each breath, and in the dark, I reach up to brush my lips with the pads of my fingers. My still-tingling lips replay the feeling of Trace’s desperate kiss until I fall asleep and dream of it on repeat.