Every Little Promise

by Lexi Ryan

  In this moment, ten years ago doesn’t matter. Tomorrow doesn’t matter. Only this.

  “I think we’re fine for a while,” he tells the server, his voice low as his hand drifts higher.

  I know the server can’t see us, but he’s standing right there, and my cheeks burn with the knowledge of where Marston’s hand is headed.

  “Of course, sir,” the server says.

  Marston sets down his glass and angles toward me in the booth, his hand creeping a little higher on my thigh. He studies my lips for a long moment before slowly lowering his mouth toward mine. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he whispers.

  “Good.” I’m the one who closes the distance between our mouths, and I moan at the contact. His kiss is a sweet relief. I didn’t work him up to be better in my mind. I’d forgotten the electric charge between us, that rightness.

  He cups my jaw in his big hand and tilts my head back, taking my mouth fully in a heady exploration of tongues and lips and need. I’m entirely his.

  His hand slides farther up my skirt, and when his fingers brush against my panties, I know exactly where I need this night to go. I need this and him. I need . . . more.

  “You wanted me to think about you in these?” he asks, tracing the scalloped edge of the lace with his fingers. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  He kisses his way from my mouth, along my jaw, back to my ear, and those fingers slide into my panties. He hisses out a curse when he skims my wet center.

  My thighs part in invitation. Yes. This. Please.

  “Is this what you came for, Brinley? Is this what you needed?”

  I meet his eyes. It’s dark in here, but not so dark that I can’t see the hunger in his expression. But I don’t need any light at all to know. I can feel it in the way he strokes me.

  He holds my gaze as he slides a finger inside me. My breath hitches. My body squeezes around him. He pumps in and out, his palm giving me delicious pressure against my clit. He’s barely touched me, but I’m so close, sitting on the razor’s edge of pleasure and release and unsure which way I want to fall.

  Part of me is aware of the club music booming around us, but I can hardly hear it because every one of my senses is wrapped up in him—the way he smells, his powerful arm braced between my legs, the sound of his breathing growing rougher from nothing more than touching me.

  I’m not the kind of girl who gives a man free rein of her body in the middle of a club. Not the kind of girl who can get off in a dark corner when anyone might look over and guess what’s happening under the table. But tonight, I want to be. If the man is him, I want anything he can give me.

  I reach for him and trail my hand along his powerful thigh, higher.

  He nips at my earlobe. “Not yet,” he growls. He slides a second finger inside me, and my muscles clench tight around the welcome intrusion.

  My mind flickers to the first time he touched me like this—at the creek on my parents’ property, the trees the brightest shade of green all around us, the smell of spring flowers in the air. I was clumsy—nervous and inexperienced—but so in love. It was new and exciting and as exhilarating as this moment.

  This is so different . . . and yet, at the root of the arousal, at the root of the pleasure, it’s the same. It’s him. It’s the inevitable and the impossible.

  “You feel so good against my hand,” he says. “You’re so fucking wet, I’m liable to make a fool of myself right here.”

  My lips part, and I drag in a ragged breath as my whole body goes tighter.

  “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, giving me a fraction more pressure. “Let go. Let me feel you come.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper. I don’t know what I’m objecting to—where we are, how crazy this is, or what I should be doing this weekend instead of being here with him.

  “All you have to do is enjoy. I’m losing my mind thinking about tasting this sweetness I feel on my fingers. Are you going to let me do that? Can I strip you bare and kiss you here?”

  I don’t know if it’s the words or if my body just can’t hang on anymore, but suddenly, I slip. Dive. Fall. Every muscle goes tight, clenching, then pleasure shoots down my spine so violently that my hips buck off the seat.

  “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He kisses up and down my neck.

  I survey the club. It’s dark, and no one’s looking our way. But still . . . “I can’t believe we just did that.” I bury my face in his neck and laugh. “Holy shit.”

  He strokes me gently again, and I shudder with aftershocks of pleasure. “I’m ready to crawl under the table and get a taste of this.”

  My cheeks blaze at the thought—not from embarrassment but from the shock of realizing I just might let him. “Are you this wild with all your girls?”

  He stiffens then pulls back. “I’m not going to pretend I’ve been celibate all these years. Have you?”

  I swallow hard. Thinking of the days after Marston left, of college, of boyfriends and disappointing one-night stands, of Julian. “No.”

  He shakes his head as if he can see the shame on my face. “Don’t do that. We’ve had lives while we’ve been apart, and neither of us needs to feel guilty about that.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “But no,” he whispers, skimming his mouth along my jaw to my ear. “To answer your question, I’ve never done anything this crazy. Never felt as wild for anyone as I feel for you.”

  Swallowing, I cautiously step into the treacherous waters we’ve been dancing around all night. “I always wondered what it’d be like to see you again,” I say. “I thought you might come back one day.”

  “I did. Once,” he says, and everything inside me freezes. “I’d finished my first year of college and I caught a Greyhound to Orchid Valley all the way from California. You were having some sort of party at your house. The back patio was full of people, and there you were in this pink sundress, your hair pulled up, holding someone’s baby.”

  Holding someone’s baby. He saw me holding Cami. She was the first baby I’d ever held. The only one I held for years. In those first few weeks, my inexperience was terrifying, but by the time Marston would have seen me, holding Cami was second nature. “You were there?”

  “Boys like that move from one girl to the next, Brinley,” Dad said. “He’s already forgotten about you. And even if he hadn’t, you think he’d want you now? This is the worst nightmare for a boy like that.”

  I never fully believed those words, but they must’ve taken root on some level for this revelation to shock me so much.

  “You looked absolutely stunning, and I was so distracted by the sight of you that I didn’t even notice your dad coming up beside me.” He draws in a long breath. “He told me if I cared about you at all, I would leave town and never come back. He said he’d lost a daughter already and he’d sooner cut you off than lose you to me.”

  The blow I feel at those words is as familiar as my father’s sneer. His threats to cut me off worked for years—until I finally cut myself free—and I can’t help but wonder what would have come of my life if Marston had called his bluff.

  “I argued at first. I’d come all that way and . . .” He looks down at his bourbon, his jaw twitching. “I left the house and went into town, thinking I’d catch you later, but his words kept echoing in my head. I decided I needed to go. It’d been a year and you looked so happy. You were doing fine without me, and I didn’t want to ruin your plans.”

  “So you left.” I don’t mean for my words to sound like such an accusation, but they do. I was incredibly lonely during those years—isolated from my friends, trying and failing to prove I could hack it as a mother. If I looked happy, it was because I was holding Cami. She was the only light in my life. Even now, when life has gotten so much better and there’s so much good around me, she still shines brightest.

  “It was the right choice, wasn’t it?” he asks. If I tell him the truth—that I wish he’d stayed, that I wish he’d at least let me know he’d cared enough to come—it m
ight break something in him that I have no right to break.

  I offer a small truth instead. “It was the only choice.”

  “I thought that—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about that tonight.”

  Me neither. I lean forward and press a kiss to his throat. “What do I have to do to talk you into taking me somewhere more private?”

  Chapter Eight

  Brinley

  October 19th, before

  * * *

  “So, tomorrow night?” Roman asks, tugging on a lock of my hair and smiling.

  I take a sip of my mocha. “I still need to ask my mom, but if she says yes . . .” I smile. I’m trying to convince myself it’d be nice to go out with Roman again. It would go a long way to getting Mom off my back, and maybe it would help me get over Marston.

  Until Roman decided to be a dick at my birthday party, I really liked him. He apologized the next day, and if it hadn’t been for Marston, we probably would’ve gotten back together. But instead of throwing myself into Roman’s arms when he said how awful he felt, I accepted his apology and went about my day.

  I was too preoccupied with the first boy who kissed me to give much thought to the guy who missed his chance. But since Mom found us in my room, Marston has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with me. Meanwhile, for the past week, Roman has been waiting at my locker with a mocha every morning and after swim practice to walk me home every evening.

  Isn’t it healthier to spend my time and energy on a guy who’s interested in me in return?

  “If she says yes, then what?” Roman prods, inching closer. “I want to hear you say it.”

  “Then I’ll go to the drive-in with you.”

  The first bell rings, and he grins and pulls away. “I promise she’ll say yes. I’ll make sure of it.” He smacks my butt lightly then walks away toward his first-hour class. “See you after practice.”

  I wave goodbye, but his words echo in my head. “I’ll make sure of it.” That probably means his parents are going to talk to my parents about this potential date. That shouldn’t annoy me—that’s the way things work in my family—but it does. I want to date boys who are sweet, regardless of what my parents think of their social standing. Boys who like me despite my family’s influence and not because of it.

  I grab the books for my first two classes from my locker and slam it shut. When I spin around to head to first hour, Marston is standing in my way—shocking, since it seems like I can look for him all week and barely catch a glimpse of him, but now that I’m determined to move on, here he is.

  “The drive-in?” he asks. The hallways are clearing out as everyone tries to get to their seats before the tardy bell.

  “Hey, Marston.”

  His scowl might have intimidated me if I didn’t know he was such a nice guy deep down. “Why doesn’t he just come right out and ask you to give it up to him in the back of his car?”

  I bristle. “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t.” He lifts one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “Do what you want. I’m just surprised that you’re dating him after what he did to you on your birthday.”

  “He apologized. He was upset about a fight he’d had with his parents and took it out on me.”

  “A good sign that he’s a dick.”

  “He’s not . . .” I shake my head. “I’m not doing this with you. You kiss me and then avoid me for weeks. You don’t get to weigh in on who I do or don’t date.”

  I stomp off to class, but I barely hear a word in my first three classes. At lunch, I’m too sick to my stomach to eat, and I don’t even know why. Is it because of what Marston said about Roman? It doesn’t matter what Marston thinks about the guys I date. But the feeling follows me through the rest of my day, and instead of getting a snack between the final bell and swim practice, I tell the coach I’m not feeling well. I would head home and hide in my room, but Dad’s working at his home office today, and he’ll chew my ass out if he realizes I’m missing practice, so I linger. I chat with a few friends in the parking lot, declining half a dozen offers for a ride home. Only when everyone’s cleared out do I start walking—the long way.

  When I pass the marching band supply shed, someone grabs my arm and pulls me inside, away from the view of the cars merging onto the road. Marston has the same scowl from this morning on his handsome face as he kicks the door closed. The shed is crowded with old props and plywood scraps, and the only light filters in from high, dusty windows.

  “What the heck, Marston?” My objection comes out too weak. It’s the objection of a girl who knows it’s bullshit to be treated like this but who’s so desperate for the attention that she doesn’t really mind. I am pathetic.

  “We need to talk,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Normal people do that in less creepy places. Maybe over coffee or, oh, I don’t know, when they’re already hanging out together at the lake. Not in the supply shed.”

  “I can’t exactly have this conversation anywhere it might get back to your parents that you’re talking to a delinquent, can I?”

  Guilt punches me in the gut. He did hear Mom that day in my room. “Marston . . .” What can I say? She didn’t mean it? She absolutely did.

  He leans his head back, frustration all over his face. “What do you want me to do, Brinley? Watch you date an asshole and pretend I don’t care?”

  “It’s not like you want me,” I snap . . . and immediately realize my mistake. The right response would’ve been to defend Roman or to tell Marston he doesn’t get to have a say in who I date. Instead, I made it about us. Not that there really is an us.

  I’m an idiot.

  He swallows hard. “It doesn’t matter what I want.” The words are so soft that I can barely hear them. Maybe he hoped I wouldn’t hear them at all.

  “It does to me.” I step forward and lift a hand to the side of his face. He closes his eyes as if he’s been starved for my touch and he’s afraid this isn’t real. “I like you, Marston Rowe. I’m just trying to figure out if you like me too.” I wait with my palm pressed to his cheek, my body a breath from his. I wait for him to kiss me or push me away or tell me I’m a stupid girl.

  Instead, he takes three deep breaths before finally opening his eyes, and when he looks at me, I see so much anguish in his expression that it makes my chest ache. “Roman is talking about how he’s going to sleep with you at the movies.”

  “What? No way! How would you even know that?”

  He blows out a breath. “I was using the weight room over the weekend when the football team showed up for conditioning. His friends were giving him a hard time for not being able to close the deal with you. He’s apparently decided he needs to get between your legs to protect his reputation.”

  I drop my hand. I don’t want to believe it, but . . . well, I’m close enough to Smithy to know how the boys at this school talk, how they prove themselves.

  “You deserve better.” He stares at me for a long time before ducking his head and turning to the door.

  I step in front of him before he can reach for the handle. “I know.” I swallow and force myself to meet his eyes. “I know I deserve better.”

  “Then . . .” He shakes his head. “Why?”

  “I’m lonely. I know that sounds ridiculous, but if you knew what it was like to live with my dad, you—”

  “No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t sound ridiculous. It sounds human . . . to search for connection.” He scans my face as if he’s trying to read my mind. “Your sister’s sick, and your parents are ass—” He grimaces and searches for another word. “Your parents are hard on you.”

  I drop my gaze to my shoes. The glossy black finish is covered in sawdust from the shed floor.

  “And you and Brittany probably share friends too, am I right? I hear them bombarding you with questions about her. I bet you don’t mind either, but I never hear them ask how you are.”

  “I don’t mind,” I object soft
ly. I feel like he’s seeing right through me, like he’s found all the ugly, rotten, spoiled parts I keep hidden. The parts that resent my sister for her cancer, even when I know it’s not her fault. The parts that resent my parents for all the times they seem to forget about their healthy daughter. It’s like he can see even the parts I don’t want to see myself, and I can’t decide if it’s terrifying or . . . a relief.

  This is why I’ve felt sick all day. Not because I’m worried Marston will judge me for dating Roman and not because I think Marston’s right and Roman might hurt me again. My stomach has been in knots because where everyone else sees Brinley Knox, good girl and perfect daughter, Marston sees me. I’ve never felt so vulnerable. “How do you know all that?”

  His lip twitches. “I’m bored. I’ve had some time to think about what makes you tick.”

  My eyes widen. “You’ve been thinking about me?”

  “A little.”

  “Enough to psychoanalyze me.” Now I’m smiling. Smiling because he knows I’m screwed up and selfish—what the heck is happening here? “You’ve been thinking about me a lot.”

  “Not in a creepy way.”

  I chew on my bottom lip. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely if I had a friend who thought about me in a not-creepy way. Then maybe I wouldn’t need to go to the drive-in with Roman.”

  He grunts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “You’re bribing me to be your friend?”

  “Only if it’ll work.”

  “Friends.” He shakes his head. “Your parents would freak out on both of us.”

  “I think I need something in my life that my parents don’t control . . . and the only parts of my life they don’t control are the ones they don’t know about.”

  Chapter Nine

  Marston

  Present day

  * * *

  Having a limo drive me around Vegas is all about swagger. I’m much more comfortable driving my own damn self or grabbing a Lyft if I’m drinking. But I’ve made my business successful by always appearing to be and have the best. The limo makes the right kind of statement, even if I find it obnoxious.