All My Tomorrows by Kathryn C. Kelly

Author:Kathryn C. Kelly [Kelly, Kathryn C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Makin Groceries Media
Published: 2018-09-24T16:00:00+00:00

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The owner’s table offered a very good view of the dance floor and the bar, and perhaps because it was a weeknight, the club was crowded but not packed. Trey and Brittany took to the dance floor right after they’d been shown to their table and remained there for nearly an hour. Trey’s goal had been to show Brittany a good time and take her on a date, but he was having a damn good time himself.

When they returned to the table, he ordered a second beer for himself and a glass of wine for Brittany, since neither of them cared for champagne.

The softer music and her sweet shyness affected him to no end. “After we finish our drinks, will you be ready to roll, baby girl?”

“Yes.”

He caressed the contours of her face, tracing the outline of her small nose, the delicate curves of her chin and cheeks. She leaned into his hand.

He rubbed his thumb over her lips. “Are you tired?”

Her skin heated beneath his touch, the pulse point at the base of her throat beginning to pound. She licked her lips, myriad emotions flickering through her eyes.

“Ready for bed?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But not for sleep.”

At her words, Trey’s cock stiffened. “You want me?” he asked, close to her ear, able to detect the faint scent of her apple-scented shampoo still lingering in her hair from when she’d washed it earlier. He licked the delicate shell of her ear.

Sucking in a breath, she clutched his arm but leaned away.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, happy her fingers still gripped his biceps. “When we make love, we’re just expressing our feelings for each other in a physical way.”

“What do you feel for me?”

He took her small, slender hand. His hand dwarfed hers. He dwarfed her and he wondered if the man who’d attacked her was short or tall, thin or heavy.

Motherfucker. If he wasn’t careful, her attack would consume his life as much as it consumed hers. Redirecting his thoughts, he kissed the back of her hand. “I can’t promise you anything other than now. Not that I’m saying it won’t develop into something deeper later.”

“If you opened yourself to that possibility.”

“And if I did?” he managed, annoyed and out of sorts that she was pressing this issue when so much stood between them. “Would the shame and guilt you feel about making love go away? Or would I have to face the possibility you’d fall apart every time I touched you?” A deep rage seethed in him at the vulnerability he hadn’t experienced since his father’s death. He couldn’t stop his overflowing frustration. “You’ve gone into screaming hysterics. You’ve cut off your goddamn hair.”

Her emotional upheaval bordered on post-traumatic stress.

She snatched her hand away from his and shoved his shoulder but he didn’t budge.

“I’m not ashamed of making love to you,” she snapped. “I’m ashamed of wanting to make love to you. Of the desire I feel.” She glared at him. “I’ve wanted you. I wanted you to be m-my first lover.

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