13. Abby
13
ABBY
B eing the center of Dane’s focus is like riding a rollercoaster—thrilling but also scary in its intensity.
On our first date, I made assumptions about his career and decided to get away before I became attached. The prospect of being subject to casual cruelty and emotional manipulation regarding my personal appearance had been too difficult to bear.
My response to his profession had been more about my own damage than about his choices.
But Dane isn’t my family. If anything, we both have trauma inflicted by the people closest to us.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way. I recall his confession about his own fraught relationship with his family.
He’d started to open up to me, but I ran at the first hint of personal conflict.
“You value your independence, too,” I finally murmur. “You said you left your family behind in England and chose a different path for yourself. I understand. And I’m sorry I judged you.”
He draws in a sharp breath, as though he’s shocked at my apology.
I suppose I didn’t do a very good job of maintaining a polite veneer when I first found out about his area of expertise.
“What do you like to do in your free time?” I ask. He said that his career affords him the lifestyle he wants.
I work so that I can paint. I want to know what he values if he isn’t passionate about being a doctor.
He shoots me a sly smile. “Reading.”
He’s practically taunting me to ask why he picked up Addie LaRue again.
I don’t hear you begging yet.
Heat flushes my cheeks as his suggestive words echo through my thoughts. They’re so similar to GentAnon’s dirty messages.
GentAnon
Making demands? That’s not how this works. Beg.
I shake my head slightly, as though I can toss away the memory of the shameful exchange with my online pen pal. I’m with Dane now, and he’s far too refined and protective to ever indulge in fucked-up fantasies about hurting me while he gives me forbidden pleasure. I might picture his heartbreaking face and stunning eyes when I’m alone in my bed, but I have to be careful to differentiate that fantasy of him from the real man.
My skin is strangely tight and hot, so I take a bite of my ice cream to cool down.
We’re walking through Battery Park now, approaching the iconic gazebo. In a rare moment of luck, no one is taking up the space for their wedding photos. Dane walks toward it with confident strides, and I keep pace, eager to claim the shady spot before someone else comes along.
“What chapter are you on?” I ask in between decadent bites of my sugary treat. “I don’t want to spoil anything for you.”
We come to a stop inside the gazebo, and Dane sets his cup of ice cream on the railing so that he can open the book. He’s still holding it in his other hand, and he checks the page he’s bookmarked with a simple leather cord.
“Your gelato is melting,” I remark before he can tell me what scene he was reading when my shift ended.
He plucks my now-empty cup from my hand and replaces it with his. “This is for you.”
My lips quirk at the corners in a teasing smile. He’s only tried one tiny bite, so he’s clearly not enjoying it. “Too American for you?”
His low chuckle rumbles over my skin like a palpable caress. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “I’d much rather see you enjoy it.”
“It would be a shame to waste it,” I say.
The texture of the creamy treat is velvety from softening in the summer heat, and the candy topping crunches in a delicious contrast.
I don’t realize that I’ve released a soft moan of pure delight until his jaw tightens with his own hunger. I tear my gaze away, embarrassed at the almost wanton noise I just made. It feels practically erotic when he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me.
I take another big bite of my gelato and look out at the park. Lacy Spanish moss drips from the elegantly curving branches of ancient live oaks. I focus on the gossamer texture of the moss and imprint this moment in my memory; I’ll paint the scene later, expressing all the intense feelings that I’m struggling to contain while he watches me eat the last of the ice cream like it’s a sensual act.
The electric chemistry that danced between us on our first date crackles along my flesh. He’s so close that we’re almost touching, his corded forearms resting on the delicate white railing. The pose is casual, but I’m practically vibrating with unspent, giddy energy.
My fingers tremble slightly as he takes the empty cup from my hand, his body heat teasing at the edge of my personal space without making direct contact. He sets it down beside the other gelato cup and turns his attention to my favorite book again.
I watch his broad, masculine hands in rapt fascination as he opens it with deft fingers. His surgeon’s dexterity is obvious now, and I contemplate how I can capture that in the stillness of a painting.
He taps the chapter heading, indicating where he is in the story. My spine tingles in response to the soft brush of his fingertip across the first line, an echo of the way he touched my back when we leaned on the railing at the rooftop of The Magnolia.
“No spoilers,” he warns. “But I want to know what you love about the book.”
He must be a fast reader, because he’s already about seventy percent of the way through. I imagine speed-reading must be a skill he picked up for his studies, yet another impressive quality that reminds me of his formidable intelligence.
His gaze is so intent on mine that I have to glance away again. This conversation suddenly feels achingly vulnerable, as though sharing what I love about the story will reveal intensely intimate information about me.
I look out at the glowing green canopy created by the massive oak trees as I reply, “I love the main character’s fierce independence,” I admit. “Addie defies her family’s plans for her. She forges her own path.”
“She’s a survivor.” His low murmur cuts to the core of me, and his thumb brushes the back of my hand in a shockingly tender caress.
I try for a dismissive shrug. “She’s immortal.”
He releases a low hum that sinks deep into my chest and makes my heart flutter. His fingers thread through mine, fitting our hands together like puzzle pieces.
“But she endures,” he observes. “Even if she can’t die, she’s a survivor.”
“Yes.” My admission is soft, barely audible.
How can he see straight through me? He told me I’m easy to read. I can’t seem to hold back around him, even when my instinct is to keep things light.
“What about the love story?” he prompts. “Do you like that too?”
I keep my eyes fixed on the trees, studying the way the bright sunlight plays through the leaves. Just like when Dane asked me about the red abstract painting in the gallery at The Magnolia, it’s as though someone has turned up the saturation on the world. I’m thoroughly in his thrall, even if I’m visually fixated on the natural beauty that surrounds us.
“I’m a fan of romance,” I manage, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. My voice is soft and oddly throaty, almost sultry.
Keeping our fingers firmly locked, he lifts his free hand and twines my purple curl around his forefinger. “Which character do you prefer: the sweet love interest or the dark god?”
He’s touching my nape, his sure fingers sliding into my hair. He cradles the back of my head in one hand and gently urges me to turn, so that I have no choice but to face him.
His eyes search mine, and his sensual lips tug up at the corners, as though he’s savoring a secret I haven’t divulged aloud.
“I prefer Addie’s relationship with the dark god too,” he says, his voice deep and intimate.
“But he torments her.” It’s supposed to be a protest, but the breathiness in my voice gives me away.
“It’s fiction, Abigail. A fantasy. It’s okay to like it.”
My cheeks heat, and I’m not sure if it’s from shame or arousal.
I have an awful suspicion that it’s both.
His touch is gentle, but I’m locked in his hold as surely as if he had my hair tangled in his fist. He binds me in place with no more than his gaze, his powerful bearing keeping me thoroughly under his spell.
Molten honey drips down my spine to pool in my belly, and an insistent pulse between my legs echoes the beat of my heart.
“Dane…” His name is a plea, and I’m not sure if I’m begging for him to release me or for him to grant me the mercy of his kiss.