Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2) by J.T. Geissinger

Author:J.T. Geissinger [Geissinger, J.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503902138
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 2018-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

I wring myself out against him, helpless to stop myself from being such a sad spectacle. Years of anger, hurt, and loneliness pour out of me like a tap has been opened. I cry until I’m exhausted, sniffling and hiccupping, trembling with shame.

Then Cam performs a miracle and picks me up in his arms.

I’d protest, but I’m too tired, so I allow him to carry me over to the sofa while I marvel at how effortless he makes lifting the weight of a baby elephant seem.

He settles me onto the sofa, props a pillow behind my head, pulls a blanket up to my chin, and strokes a lock of hair off my damp forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

When he leaves, I burrow under the blanket, tucking my legs up and hiding my face. My wet, undoubtedly splotchy and swollen face.

Some women can cry prettily, with dainty little feminine tears and elegant noises of distress, but I am not one of those women. I cry the same way I eat: messily, loudly, and with total abandon.

I am unruly in emotion and appetite. I’ve spent so much of my adult life trying to not be unruly, to be smaller, more contained, more acceptable, but underneath it all I’m still myself. All the passions and desires and tempestuous needs, all the wants and hurts and sorrows, all the ugly and wonderful things. I am just unruly, peculiar me, and I’m so tired of pretending otherwise.

At least with Cam I don’t have to.

He returns from his apartment after a few minutes, bearing gifts.

He lifts my legs, sits on the sofa, and places my legs over his lap. “C’mon out, lassie. I’ve got treats.”

I flip down an edge of the blanket and peek out. Cam is looking at me expectantly, holding a white ceramic bowl and smiling.

“Treats?” I sit up, already feeling better.

“Chocolate ice cream drizzled with Kahlúa.”

My gasp is low and thrilled. I thrust out my arms and wiggle my fingers. “Gimme.”

“No, we’re sharing.” He scoops up a spoonful of ice cream and eats it, watching as I lick my lips. Then he scoops a spoonful for me and holds it out.

I let him feed it to me, feeling awkward but also comforted, like the time I had strep throat when I was ten and my mother fed me soup at my bedside. That was the last time I can recall that she didn’t make a disapproving face as she watched me eat.

“S’good,” I say around a cold mouthful of deliciousness. “But it’s not on my diet.”

“That’s why it’s called a treat.” He takes another bite, savoring it, licking the spoon like it’s a woman’s thigh. Or maybe that’s in my imagination. Watching him eat is distinctly sensual. “Food is fuel, but it’s also comfort. The trouble happens when it becomes more comfort than fuel. But that’s what hugs are for.”

He feeds me more ice cream, and I’m feeling better by the second. “You’re a very good hugger, by the way.”

“I know.”

We smile at each other.

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