It was funny—not ha-ha funny but strange funny—how I could proceed along a path without deviating, without seeing how fucked up it was for years, but that one conversation with Brooke had tipped me over the edge.
I’d been thinking a lot since I found out about Frank.
But I’d still been shouldering more than my fair share of the burden.
Then, two nights before, Brooke—and squee! I was somehow on a first name basis with Brooke Freaking McAlister, my favorite author—but what she’d said hadn’t necessarily been book-related. She’d been talking about Kace, about taking a leap with him and finding the courage to put her heart on the line.
“I realized I could either continue to live on the periphery,” she’d said, tucking a strand of her long, red hair behind one ear. “Or I could just live.”
I’d smiled, teased her, even though those words collided heavily with my soul. “You should write books or something.”
Brooke had grinned. “I’ve definitely got the or something part down,” she’d said. “At least, according to some of my readers,” she’d added when I’d given her a questioning look. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just got a lovely email this morning accusing me of writing filth, and the lady told me if she owned a car, she would use it to run over her Kindle, in hopes of it erasing the ‘disgusting tripe’ that had crossed its screen.”
Perspective.
The living or being on the periphery part from Brooke.
But also, the perspective that someone could think that the stories I so enjoyed, the slice of escapism and fun and, yes, occasionally the very steamy sex scene, were disgusting and horrible and something to be scrubbed out of existence.
I didn’t want to be scrubbed out of existence. Or live constantly on the sidelines.
“That would turn out to be a very expensive eBook,” I’d told Brooke. But inside I’d felt my realization like a punch to the gut. For so long, I’d seen myself in one way, seen my life moving in one direction . . . and I could change it.
So . . . perspective.
Then Brent had asked me out.
Officially.
And I was running with it.
I pulled in a breath then released it slowly, trying to imagine all the remaining, niggling doubts and worries being exhaled as easily as carbon dioxide. I deserved to be happy and right now, Brent made me happy. I was mentally editing out what would normally go through my brain in that moment: for some reason—because no, dammit, not for some reason, not because it was insane he was attracted to me, not even because of the whole he was gorgeous, and I was not thing.
I’d thought myself into a tiny compact ball, reduced everything good about me for way too long.
Now was the time to be kinder.
Now was the time for me to finally embrace that I deserved to find some happy.
Now was the time for me to go after something I wanted.
Today . . . that was Brent.
Tomorrow? Maybe it would be Brent covered in cherry pie filling as I slowly licked it off his body. I grinned at myself in the mirror then reached for my jacket just as the doorbell rang.
“You got this,” I told the optimistic woman in the reflection.
The one that I almost didn’t recognize.
The one I wanted to keep around anyway.
I made it down the stairs in record time, clomping in my chunky-heeled booties across the hardwood floor to tug open the door.
“Hi,” I said, a little breathless from the jog to the front of the house, but mostly breathless because it was Brent . . . and fuck could the man wear a suit. It was deep navy with a bright white shirt underneath. No tie, which was a shame because the outfit definitely gave me the urge to take him by the tie and drag him into the next room. But the shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way up, so I contented myself with fantasizing about caressing that triangle of exposed skin with my tongue . . . then maybe showing him how good my unbuttoning skills were as I made my way down.
I was good at shirt buttons.
But I thought I was even better at pants buttons.
Hadn’t had a lot of experience with undoing belts, however . . .
Which was preciously the point—my gaze firmly locked on said belt (which was in a killer shade of dark brown that also matched a cool pair of shoes that weren’t old-man frumpy, but instead model-worthy)—that I realized I hadn’t said anything aside from Hi, and that had been a good two minutes earlier.
I tore my eyes from the belt and brought them up to Brent’s face.
Then realized he hadn’t been speaking either.
Because his gaze was on me . . . or rather on my body. I shivered when it drifted slowly back up, almost as though he were tangibly tracing my curves, my skin prickling and goose bumps rising on its surface, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my bra.
And he saw my body’s reaction.
Or, at least, I suspected it. Because my nipples got tingly and then his face changed, need sharpening his features as his eyes lingered there for a long moment before they eventually moved up to mine.
Heat.
Scalding brown eyes that threatened to set my body on fire.
He cleared his throat. “That’s some dress, darlin’.”
I nibbled my lip, started to murmur a “thanks,” but suddenly I found myself in his arms, pulled flush against that broad chest of his, getting a close-up view of the heat in his gaze. “And then you had to go and bite that gorgeous mouth of yours,” he said, a mix of velvet and gruff that slid over my skin, arrowing heat directly for my pussy. “I can’t have you abusing this mouth.” He brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, making my breath hitch. “Can I?”
If me abusing meant he’d hold me like this or hopefully kiss me like it was imminent
