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“Maybe next time we can sit here when it’s not below freezing.”
“My dad died when I was a kid. He was a member of the Devils, so the club had this bench put in for his memory.”
My stomach sinks. He brought me to a place that reminds him of his dead father and I’m being flippant. Hollow emptiness sits in my gut.
“I’m sorry,” I type quickly.
“Don’t be sorry. It was a long time ago.” He rubs circles on my arm. “It was a rival club. They took him out when he was in a bar in town—alone.”
My heart breaks for him. His upbringing probably wasn’t that dissimilar to mine, considering I lost my own father young.
He clears his throat, as if the memory pains him. I’m sure it does. “But that’s not why I brought you out here.”
I try to sit up, but he keeps his grip on me for a moment before he lets me go, as if he’s scared to release me.
“It’s okay to be upset about missing your father,” I type in.
He gives me a wry smile. “Well, that’s why I need a distraction, little one. So I don’t miss him. Be my distraction?”
He sounds a little desperate. How can I say no to that?
I reclaim my spot next to him, leaning against him once more, and he resumes stroking my arm. “What was he like?”
“My father?”
I nod.
“I’m a lot like him, or so I’ve been told. I don’t remember too much. I feel worse for my sisters. They were so small when he died. At least I have some memories of him. They’ve got nothing.”
That hits me right in the chest. I grew up with nothing of my father either.
“I lost my father too when I was young.”
“I know. It must have been hard for your mum. At least mine just had the three of us. There’s what? Five of you?
I nod, then type, “I had plenty of other good men in my life.”
I don’t know why, but I grab his hand.
He stares at our joined palms then raises his gaze to mine.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, and I frown, unsure why he’s apologising until his mouth comes scant inches from mine. He’s going to kiss me, and once again, I’m going to let him.
“You tell me to stop and I will.”
I don’t type anything in my phone. I don’t move. I just continue to meet his heated gaze.
That is all the invitation he needs to proceed. His fingers thread through my hair and his hands come to rest at the nape of my neck, then his mouth descends. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s firm, hard and amazing. His mouth is warm and tastes of beer, and his tongue goes exploring. He’s not coy, even if I am. His hands are also not content to remain in my hair. They take a wander. He rubs my left breast through my tee, drawing an embarrassingly needy pant from me. Dane has magic hands.
When he dips his fingers under my top and inside my bra to find my nipple, I’m a panting mess. I rub my thighs together to create friction to alleviate the tension growing down there, wishing his hands were also down there.
He gently lays me back against the bench and parts my legs, one hand keeping me from rolling off.
The moment he touches me, I’m done. My brain is no longer calling the shots, my body is and it doesn’t care about propriety because his other hand is cupping me before slipping under the waistband of my jeans to slide inside my underwear.
Then he stops.
What the…
