“Wait!” Anna runs after her brother, “I think the memorial would help you to heal!” I cringe, knowing this is the worst thing you could tell him in the moment.
I’m surprised though when he doesn’t rip her head off but starts speaking to her in French, fast and with a lot of hand gestures.
She answers back, and I wish I could understand what they’re saying, but I can’t. I have no idea how a guy named Oliver Spencer can be so fluent.
He says something that has his sister gasping and walks away toward the elevator.
“Tessa! Can you drive me to the motel?” he says without a glance toward me.
“Le Pew! We need to follow the case through. Don’t be a dick!”
Oliver lifts his middle finger in Mark’s direction and barks my name once more. I run toward him and just make it in the elevator before the doors close.
I look at him between my eyelashes and wait for him to calm down before firing all the questions popping in my brain. Wearing a camouflage shirt and some black sporty pants, he looks like the wet dream on a sports magazine. He takes his glasses off, blows on it, and cleans them with his shirt. So fucking sexy.
“What?” he asks suddenly. His voice makes my stomach jolt like flip-flops on the floor, and I feel my heart melt by the little attention he gives me. Shit.
“Nothing,” I answer too fast for him to believe me.
“Don’t bullshit me, Tessa. Ask what you want to ask!” He puts his glasses back in place and his eyes find mine. They are filled with anger, distress, boredom, and hurt — all at once. I didn’t know it was possible to read all this in a simple look.
“Fucking spit it out,” he snarls.
“Okay,” I say calmly, not to poke the bear more than he already is.
“You disappeared, and I can see you aren’t fine. I want to know how Elaine died. I want to know where you were. I want to know why you speak French so well. I want to know why Mark was so worried. I want to understand what happened last night. I want to know what it feels like to be loved by your in-laws. I want to know why—” I can’t finish my sentence because his hands are on my cheeks, and his lips are coming dangerously close to mine.
“Shut up,” he murmurs before falling on my lips.
His lips are warm and soft and when his tongue pushes its way through, I understand the need he has for me to be quiet.
I urge my brain to shut up.
It’s chanting that this isn’t how King used to kiss me, but I allow my body to take over, and I feel peaceful, connected, and turned on.
Oliver steps in, forcing me against the wall but his hands never leave my face.
He tastes like mint and sadness.
I moan in his mouth before realizing the desolation I sense are from the tears I’m crying.
Oliver strides back.
“Why the fuck are you crying?” he asks, the gentlemen I’ve met last week is long gone, his eyes dark from desire and his erection poking at my core.
“You’re the first man I’ve kissed since King died,” I answer honestly, knowing he will understand my vulnerability.
He undoubtedly remembers the first time he kissed someone other than Elaine. He pulls at his fuck-me hair and looks at me with sorrow.
“I shouldn’t have, I’m—,” I don’t let him finish and jump him to kiss his lips some more, needing him to shut up and not make me regret what I felt when he kissed me.
Because for an instant, when he was kissing me, it felt right.
For an instant, I didn’t feel the emptiness I carry around like a battle wound.
For an instant, I felt alive.
And if I have to kiss Oliver some more to feel again, I’ll gladly oblige.
Chapter Twelve
OLIVER
My heart beats in my chest like a woodpecker against a tree —hard and fast, with a rhythm I didn’t think possible again.
Tessa’s lips are my heaven, and a blanket of warmth slides over me.
My tongue caresses her lips, drinking the tears she’s still shedding.
She refuses to stop.
She needs to go through it.
And I understand why.
The first time I kissed someone other than Elaine, I felt like I cheated.
I told myself I was a piece of shit, betraying her memory.
I don’t want that for Tessa, but there is nothing I can do to stop the thoughts from taking over, so as long as she’s kissing me, I’m kissing her back.
My hands move slowly alongside her body, tracing her silhouette. I stop them on her waist. If she hasn’t kissed anyone since her dead guy, she didn’t fuck anyone either.
I won’t fuck her like a jackhammer in an elevator.
She needs time, kisses, affection, and respect. I bring my hands back up slowly and set them back on each side of her face.
My thumbs wipe the tears that are still falling while I deepen the kiss, thrusting into her mouth like I would between her legs.
I want to devour her and swallow all her pain.
I want to kiss her until I taste happiness instead of sorrow on her lips.
But unfortunately, time isn’t on my side.
The elevator ride is over, and the doors remind me of the world surrounding us.
I back away, out of breath and dizzy, and glance at her for any indication how she feels.
Silence surrounds us.
If I am at peace with the moment we shared, all I feared she would feel is written on her face: guilt, hurt, grief.
Slowly, I walk to her and take her hand.
“Come, Murdock,” I whisper, pulling her behind me.
Opening the palm of my other hand, I don’t need to ask for her to drop her keys. There is no way she can drive feeling the way she does.
Every step we take, her face falls even more.
I walk her around the car and open the passenger door.
She slides in, giving me a
