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The way he looks at me, the scent of the room, the warmth of the wine and the eagerness of his words.
It’s like I want to capture moments, romantic little footnotes that will remind me that I’m worthy of love, should I ever forget it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A STOP SIGN
PAST
“You said you’ve never invited another woman to your home,” I start as we settle on the couch, dinner a distant and delicious memory. “Is that you being honest or you saying anything to try to fuck me?”
He chuckles as he turns to face me, his knee pointing toward me, nearly touching my thigh. I try to ignore the fact that we’re unsupervised and maybe Iwantto hear that he wants to fuck me. Just that he isn’t trying to do it in some sleazy way.
I don’t need a façade to sleep with him.
But I like this chemistry…if it’s honest. I like feeling like this—wanted and pursued.
“You do realize I don’t have to lie to get a woman in my bed?” His lips do that wicked show of pleasure, his eyes glittering as he watches how his words affect me.
“The bed you don’t invite women into?”
“Figuratively,” he tells me, maintaining that grin of his. “But yes. It’s the truth. This is my sanctuary.”
I love the way he says that word. It sounds poetic and a little more personal than I’m used to with him.
“So why am I here?”
Rather than answer my question, he continues to prove his previous point.
“If I just wanted to fuck you, I have an office. I could get us a room at my favorite hotel and seduce you with what my life affords me. I guess I thought offering you my personal space would make you feel less like?—”
“The others?” I supply, smirking at the way he groans and runs his hands over his face. It’s then that I notice the thin tan line on his left ring finger.
“You were married,” I say, not needing confirmation, not liking the taste of the sentence as it leaves me mouth.
“I was,” he confirms, dropping his hands. “It ended fairly recently but we’ve been separated for over a year.”
It’s a reminder that this man has lived a whole life in the span of time that I was going through puberty and learning how to be a woman. It’s a reminder of my youth and his age.
“How did you end up here?” The game of questions hasn’t bothered him yet and I’m soaking up every bit of information I can before my desire takes hold and fogs my brain. But the way he leans forward a little and runs his fingers along my shoulder makes me think time is running out.
“I needed a break from Hollywood,” he supplies, staring at my bare skin as he strokes it with his fingertips. “And a friend needed a favor.”
I’m learning this relaxed version of Abraham and I’m somehow trying to connect him with every other Abraham I’ve met; from the stern and surly to the flirty and tempted.
“You make everything sound so simple,” I tell him, watching as his lids lower a fraction and somehow, he’s leaning even closer. There goes that masculine scent of his, smoky and intoxicating, clouding my better judgement.
“Usually, it is,” he murmurs, the ends of his lips lifting as he eyes mine.
“You and I aren’t simple,” I point out, trying not to shiver under his touch.
“You arefarfrom simple,” he confirms, and that beautiful smile is back. I shake my head, unsure if he’s being charming or honest. And as if he can read my mind, he continues.
“Why do you act like you’re some kind of plain woman who blends into the crowd?” He snorts, leaning forward to finger a lock of my hair. Unlike the first time he did it, the night we met, I don’t pull away. “You are a stop sign, from your red hair to the curves of your hips and waist. You are…divine.”
I’m quiet, watching him as he watches me, his fingers stopping just at the ends of my hair.
“You are anything but plain, Sabrina. And anyone who doesn’t see you, doesn’t deserve to have you.”
