"Are you going to do something out of the ordinary?"
"Let's try this." He stands. Motions for me to follow.
When I do, he moves closer.
"It's been a long time since I kissed you." Ty takes another step toward me. Another. Until he's there. In my space.
I swallow hard. "So we need practice?"
He half-smiles as he slides one hand around my waist. "Yes."
"Should I take offense?"
"If you'd like." His fingers brush the hem of my tank top. "But it's not that you don't know how to kiss."
"Then what?"
"You're nervous." His fingertips skim my lower back. The bare skin between my tank top and jeans. "I am too."
He is?
He doesn’t show it.
My thoughts evaporate as he brings his hand to my cheek.
His fingers skim my jawline.
Fuck, that feels good.
I forget our conversation. Lean into his touch.
It's pure reflex. My body responding for me.
He presses his hand into the small of my back. One inch at a time, my body melts into his.
Legs, hips, stomach, chest.
Lips.
A soft brush. A whisper of a kiss.
Then his hand curls around my neck and his lips find mine again.
Those soft lips. The taste of coffee and honey and Ty.
God, he tastes good.
He feels right. He still feels so fucking right.
My hands go to his shoulders. His back. The thick fabric of his suit jacket.
There's too much of it.
I need my hands on his skin.
I need his body against mine.
Now. Here. Everywhere.
My heart thuds as he pulls back.
I stare into his eyes for a split second. They're still dark and deep and intense. Like he needs me more than anything. Like he's going to devour me.
Then he blinks and the room rearranges.
He steps backward, taking my warmth with him. Taking that safe, soft, impossibly dangerous feeling with him.
"Good?" My heart thuds against my chest. I want to kiss him again. I'm terrified to kiss him again.
He nods. "Again?"
"Again," I agree.
This time, he's slower. More careful.
He slips his arm around my waist. Slides his hand into my hair.
He stares at me like he's madly in love with me.
I stare back. Trying to project some kind of affection.
But what does love look like?
I have vague memories of my parents' happiness.
Mom smiling you're ridiculous when Dad played Purple Rain for the tenth time that week.
The way he wrapped his arms around her as he asked her to dance.
The teasing tone of his voice when she complained takeout was too spicy.
And the devastation that claimed her when he died.
Months in bed. Still. Barely eating.
Barely managing to keep me and Sienna alive.
She never recovered. Not really.
She had most of a decade and she never recovered.
That's love.
The pain of losing someone.
I didn't love my high school boyfriend.
Or the guy I dated my freshman year of college.
He made me feel special. Until I fucked him and he threw me away. Like I was a cheap toy.
Ty didn't throw me away—he was always clear about his intentions—but he left.
He took some part of me with him.
Did I love him?
I don't know.
But I did want him. I do want him.
I know how to sell that.
I close my eyes. Try to soften my thoughts. Try to let my body take over.
My fingers curl into his neck.
God, his skin is so soft. And he smells so good. Earthy shampoo. And Ty.
I rise to my tiptoes.
He pulls my body into his.
His lips find mine. His tongue slips into my mouth. His fingers skim my lower back.
The strip of exposed skin between my tank top and my jeans.
He kisses me like he's claiming me. And I yield completely.
For a few beautiful seconds, the world is perfect.
Only the sweetness of his kiss and the safety of his body against mine.
Desire floods my body.
Every part of me is awake and alive.
Every molecule inside me wants the same thing: Him.
Now. Later. Forever.
"Perfect," he says.
It is.
I barely manage an inhale. I can feel it already.
My heart screaming love him, love him, love him.
Chapter Eleven
Indigo
As promised, Paloma picks me up from Ty's office, helps me into a taxi, takes me to a modern department store.
White tiles and walls, black dividers, blinding yellow lights.
She leads me through rows of attire, assessing my outfit with a careful eye.
I'm not sure what she sees in my black tank top and skinny jeans, but it must be something, because she's brimming with enthusiasm.
"What speaks to you, Indigo?" She runs her fingers over the faux leather of my moto jacket. Studies my long chain necklace, my neat hair, my dramatic makeup.
"What speaks to me?"
"Your outfit. Why did you choose it?"
"It's comfortable."
"I do wish I could wear jeans." She taps her pencil skirt and shakes her head. "My ass looks fantastic, but can I run to catch the subway? Never." Her eyes pass over me again. Stop at my hair. "You're a musician?"
I don't call myself one. Not anymore. I haven't picked up my guitar in ages. I don't even sing along to the radio anymore.
Not since Mom died.
But I still live, eat, breathe music until it hurts and I have to stop.
"I play guitar," I say.
"And sing?"
I nod.
"You write songs?"
"I have."
"Is that what you want to do?"
"I don't know. I haven't had a lot of time for dreams recently." I still write songs sometimes. Lyrics. But they're too messy, too ugly.
No one wants my raw pain.
And I don't want to give it to anyone.
It's mine.
She makes this mm-hmm noise that's something between pity and sympathy. "What do you do for fun?"
"What's fun?"
"You're twenty-two."
"And you're so old?"
She smiles at the compliment. She looks around twenty-five, but between her boundless enthusiasm and her maternal demeanor, it's hard to place her age. "Mr. Hunt told me a little about your life."
I swallow hard. I don't like her knowing my business. But I have to get used to it. That comes with the tech mogul fiancé territory.
"I'm sorry," she says. "About your mother. I can't even imagine… if I lost my parents… I'm not sure I'd ever breathe again."
That's a good way of putting it.
"But you must blow off steam sometimes. Or you'd explode."
"I still go to shows. Go dancing."
"And your sister?"
"Yeah." My smile is involuntary. "We watch classic movies. Or reality TV. Or soccer. She plays."
"She's good?"
"Amazing."
"Is that enough? Or do you still feel… pent up?"