Page 26 of Fractured Heart

It’s the song I wrote about Beauty and the Beast, not about Cinderella and Prince Charming. It’s meant for Charles and his sexy bass, but Tate sings it beautifully. His voice plays with my heartstrings, sending my pulse racing, while Charles shifts in his seat behind me, listening intently.

With each line, Tate’s voice softens, growing quieter, and his face moves closer and closer to mine. I’m so mesmerized that there’s no time for me to feel nervous before his lips touch mine.

I gasp and marvel at the feel of my very first kiss. It’s exactly how I’ve always pictured it: magical. Tate's lips are warm, and soft, and gentle. My eyes drift shut, and I return the light pressure as warmth fills me.

My song continues to play in the background of my mind—my words in his breathtaking voice—creating the perfect melody as our lips slowly dance. It feels like the two of us are in an empty ballroom, sharing our magical first kiss as the music plays.

I sigh against Tate’s lips and he pulls back slightly and stares into my eyes. Seconds pass, and I get lost in the beauty of the moment.

I know the dazed expression that must be reflected on my face, but it quickly turns into a smile as happiness warms my heart. I just had my first kiss and it was perfect and magical and exactly what I’d always dreamed of.

“Roonie,” Charles growls, bringing me back to reality with a jolt.

“Oh,” I gasp, my happiness replaced by a wave of shame. I just kissed Tate in front of Charles. Like he wasn’t even there. Was he watching the entire time? Did he look away?

Tate smirks at Charles, not the least bit embarrassed by our public display. I try desperately not to cringe. What must Charles think of me? And what do I say to him after what I’ve just done?

Charles spins my bar stool around to face him. I open my mouth, a pleading apology on my lips, but he doesn’t give me the chance to explain. He threads one large hand through my hair, leans forward, and covers my lips with his.

My gasp quickly turns into a moan. Kissing Tate was like a magical dance in a brightly lit ballroom. Kissing Charles is like being consumed by a fiery beast. He crushes his lips against mine and my entire body bursts into flames. His beard turns the kiss feral and I let out a moan of desire.

Taking my parted lips as invitation, Charles slides his tongue inside, hard and fast. Heat pools between my legs and I grab fistfuls of his shirt, yanking at it as I try to pull him close. Charles doesn’t budge. It would take a lot more than my weak tugs to move the Beast. Need and frustration drive my desire to new heights, and I scramble forward. I’m almost on Charles’s lap at this point and Tate groans.

Tate! I gasp and wrench myself away from Charles. My cheeks are flushed, and my breath comes out in fast pants.

Charles’s muscular chest rises and falls quickly, and his eyes are glued to my lips. He looks like he wants to grab me and kiss me again, and the worst part is, I want it, too.

With a panicked cry, I scramble away from him. How could I forget all about Tate five seconds after I kissed him? I made out with another man right in front of him—his roommate of all people—while he was sitting right here.

“I’m so sorry!” I cry, looking from Tate to Charles and back again. I don’t even know who I’m apologizing to. I kissed Tate in front of Charles. Then, I kissed Charles in front of Tate. What is wrong with me?

“You’re sorry you kissed me?” Charles growls, the hurt in his tone unmistakable.

“Yes! No! I’m sorry!” I cover my face with my hands as the sinking feeling in my gut grows. There’s no way out of this, no way to avoid the hurt look I’m sure must be reflected on both their faces.

“Roonie,” Tate croons, gently peeling my fingers away from my face, “if you don’t like kissing Charles, you can kiss me again.”

“What?” My eyes widen. Tate seems one hundred percent serious about kissing me, and not the least bit upset about what happened with Charles.

“You can kiss me again,” Tate repeats, breaking into a happy grin. My stomach does a summersault and my lips tingle. Then I remember Charles. How could Tate expect me to kiss him in front of Charles?

“No.” I shake my head vehemently.

“So, you’d rather kiss Charles?” Tate’s smile falters.

“You would?” Charles’s voice rumbles with pleasure, his tone hopeful.

“No! I—I don’t know.” I look from Tate to Charles and back again.

I can’t tell Charles I would rather kiss him when Tate just gave me the magical first kiss of my dreams. The memory makes me melt…until I remember the wild, savage kiss that followed.

How can I choose between Tate and Charles?

Between Prince Charming—with his heart-melting sweetness and princely good looks—and the Beast—huge and rough and rugged?

“You do know,” Charles growls, leaning closer. He towers over me and I forget to breathe.

“Come on, Roonie,” Tate rotates my barstool to face him. He leans forward, his breath fanning my lips, and I struggle against the urge to lean in. “Tell us who you’d rather kiss. Me?”