Page 41 of Sterling Clay

“You aren’t stopping me from living,” he grinds out, irritation in his tone. Upset, not that I’ve discovered Glady, but from what I’ve just said.

“And I don’t know how long it had been before stopping by her place weeks ago.” Clay continues as if wanting to continue his thought before I interrupted him. “When nothing happened between us.”

“Because you were sick,” I remind him, reminding us both of his condition the night we connected on the side of the road. Then, I scoff. “You don’t owe me—”

“But I want you to know.” His words are softly spoken but no less intense than telling me he hasn’t stopped living. He steps forward, filling the distance that existed between us. His eyes blaze, like he’s communicating without speaking. His hands clench at his sides, as if he’s restraining himself from touching me again, when all he might want is to grab me, maybe gently shake me to enforce his thoughts. Tension mingles with passion and emotion emanating off him, sealing the sliver of space between us.

Taking a deep breath, I hold my ground. I have a choice.

Maybe he is telling me the truth. Maybe he hasn’t been with someone in a while. Maybe he wants me as much as I want him.

“Now, tell me what happened downstairs. Something or someone spooked you.” He exhales heavily again, swiping a hand down his face as if he can strip the tension off him. “Fuck Wesley. Tell me what to do so I don’t frighten you.”

“You don’t scare me,” I counter.

“But downstairs you looked ready to dart. You also looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“It was nothing,” I state again, hoping to convince myself. The man wasn’t Wesley, or anyone else from my past. Just a man, and maybe even not that as no one came back out of the bathroom while we stood in the hallway. I might have imagined the entire interaction. I definitely overreacted.

“I think too many things collided in my head. Thoughts about you and . . .” I don’t speak her name.

Clay tilts his head, a sexy smirk curling his mouth. The fists at his sides relax into flexed fingers. His shoulders lower a little. “Were you jealous?” Then he reads something in my face and his expression falls, straightens. His eyes fill with surprise. “You were jealous.”

“I was not,” I defend, and take another drink of water to dispel the lie on my tongue.

Clay is suddenly so close I can feel the warmth of his flannel from being outside in the fall sunshine.

“What if I tell you I was always jealous of Wesley.” His eyes are bright, sincerity in every word. “Jealous that he got to look at you and be with you. Touch you and hold you. Even when I shouldn’t have thought those things, shouldn’t have wanted them for myself, I was always jealous of him.”

I shake my head. He can’t mean it. No one should ever be envious of Wesley. But Clay’s admission is more about me. He wanted to look at me and be with me. He wanted to touch me and hold me. And the thought of this kind, generous, accepting, and fun-loving man wanting those things with me has my eyes filling once more with a new level of tears. Tears for all that I’ve missed out on and all I want. All I’ve ever desired in a man.

“We weren’t like that.” Wesley was hardly affectionate and never patient.

“What are my limits?”

Confusion strikes. “What do you mean?”

“How do I approach you? How do I get close to you?”

If he stood any closer, we’d be wearing each other’s clothing, but what he’s really asking hits me hard. Understanding blossoms like a spring flower. Clay wants to touch me, but he’s afraid he’ll frighten me away.

“I need to be in control,” I tell him, finding strength in my voice while the rest of me trembles with a new set of nerves. Unfiltered desire. “Be in charge.”

“No element of surprise?” Clay asks like he honestly wants to know how to make me comfortable. “Got it. What else?”

“I don’t know.” How do I explain that I’m not certain I can be intimate with someone else without knowing what will happen. Expectation. I don’t trust intimacy because I fell for the lies of it before. I believed in Wesley’s soft touch before it became harsh words and broken promises. Then pinches and slaps. And eventually, an attempt on my life.

Clay’s eyes remain on mine. “What if I gave you the power?”

“What do you mean?” I ask again, as my heart rate accelerates. My insides heat.

“Tell me what you want. What you need. Take it from me.”

“Clay, I don’t know what you—”

“Yes, you do.” His voice is sharper, but steady as his eyes darken. A layer of promise glides through them. A sense of protection. I’m safe with him. I can make all the decisions between us. I can do nothing, or I can make demands.

“Kiss me,” I whisper, uncertain the words have even left my mouth.