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I don’t.
But I’m not too stubborn to admit that I love what he does to me.
Freeing my mouth and throat, he lowers his face to my neck, kissing hard. Harsh, he murmurs, “You’re crying.” His hot breath skates against me. “Why?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His head lifts, and his palm plants against my face, covering a damp trail of tears. “Why are you crying?”
I have no idea.
So I revert to what I know best. Diversion. “Because you won’t wear a tux tomorrow.”
His brow drops before his eyes roll and he dips his head to my collarbone.
When he licks, I curse and grip his hair in both fists. “If my dress had crinoline, it’d be a ballgown. Yet you’re not going to even try to match my energy?”
He nibbles. “I know better than to waste my time on the impossible.”
I tug his hair futilely. “Rowan. What’s come over you?”
“I’m upset.”
“Why? Did something happen?” My chest twinges. “Is…is Corbin okay?”
“What? Yes? As far as I know.” Sighing, he takes my hands out of his hair, clasps them together, and traps them above my head. “I’m allowed to be upset.”
I swallow.
He kisses my chin. “Struggle a bit.”
A shiver wracks my spine, but I test the strength of his grasp, note the precarious way he has me pinned on his thigh, and lose just about all the blood in my body. “No,” I whisper, “I don’t think I will.”
Pinching my chin, he forces my eyes to his, searches them. “Loving you is torture.”
Every sensation inside me washes cold, turning my pinned arms numb. “What did you…”
“Loving you is torture,” he repeats, dragging his thumb over my swollen bottom lip. “And you know something about torture? I never got used to the pain. I only got better at hiding how it affected me.”
Tousled, dark strands of his hair fall across his forehead. Desperation gleams in his eyes.
“Can you see how much you affect me?”
“I…can.” Forcing down a swallow, I stare at the raw, unhinged craving in Rowan’s eyes. Strength leaves my limbs the longer I watch, and I… I’m scared.
None of this belongs in my perfectly plotted, sixty-two-step plan.
He’s supposed to be emotionally unavailable, strictly numb. But he isn’t. He is the sweetest, most caring, most tender man I have ever met.
And I don’t know what to do.
Papa would know. But Papa’s not here.
I have to figure this—and everything else—out on my own. Just like I have. For months. How many more months can I manage that kind of pressure alone? This was my first big project all by myself, and it’s a mess.
A complete and utter mess.
Tears rush down my cheeks, catch on my chin, and fall across my chest as something inside me breaks.
