by B. Cranford
She could be wearing a potato sack or parachute pants and she'd still be perfect in his eyes. Well, maybe not parachute pants.
“Hi.” She smiled somewhat shyly, like she was unsure of her welcome. “I talked to your mom.”
He was floored. It was such a simple thing and yet she hadn't done it the entire time he'd been gone. He nodded dumbly, unsure of what to say, thankful when she kept talking.
“She told me you needed to be supervised overnight and gave me your address. That’s—” Brighton paused, the barest hint of color tinting her cheek. “Is that okay? She told me what I needed to watch for, and I thought we could talk.”
Talk. She wanted to talk, while he wanted to drag her into his apartment and keep her there—an apartment as small as hers but nowhere near as homey, with just that damned uncomfortable couch and a couple of other pieces of furniture. He'd never planned on staying here long. Just long enough to see if she was a lost cause or if there was still a chance. And if that chance existed, he still didn’t want to stay in this place. Not when he could be with her, wherever she was.
She was standing in front of him for the first time in three weeks and holding what looked like a peace offering, and all he could think was there's still a chance.
Yes, they’d exchanged texts, and he’d showered her with gifts, but seeing her, having her standing in the doorway of his apartment, ready to care for him was more than he could have hoped for, and everything he wanted.
He wanted to dance or jump for joy. Maybe set off fireworks or have a star named in her honor—which, when he thought about it was something he should have done years ago. She was his Bright Star after all. Instead, he gave her a smile he hoped conveyed everything he wanted to say but suddenly felt too tongue-tied, too heavily-medicated to get out.
I can't believe you're really here.
Of course it's okay. You being here is more than okay.
Please don't leave.
Please forgive me.
Please still love me.
“Can I come in?” Her voice was still shy, still tentative, and he cursed himself for not inviting her in immediately.
“Yeah, yeah, yep. Yep.” Awesome, he thought. His mom was worried about concussion after the accident, which was why he needed to be watched overnight, and he sounded very much like something had jarred loose in his brain when the other car made impact. “Sorry. I wasn't expecting you.”
Her face fell, then turned to a smile when he continued. “But I'm so fucking happy you're here, Bright Star.”
He ushered her over to the couch, taking the container and Vodka from her and setting it on a nearby stack of coffee table books that he was currently using as, well, a coffee table. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Cookies, yes. Are you okay?” He suspected that those cookies in that Tupperware were the same as the ones that had stained his shirt.
Her question came with a healthy dose of concern so instead of gorging himself on the chocolate chip delights he'd missed nearly as much as the woman who'd made them, he sat beside her on the couch and reassured her. “Completely. Mom is just being cautious.”
“Are you in any pain?” She reached out a hand and laid it atop his own, which was resting on the cushion between them. “Don't lie.”
He smiled. “If I am, do you promise to make it better?” She laughed, which was what he intended. “Not really. A few aches, but otherwise I'm fine. I’m pretty well medicated though. Tomorrow I could be crying for my mommy.”
A small tap on his hand, another little laugh. He wanted to crow that he’d made her laugh twice in less than thirty seconds, but instead allowed her to ask what he was sure she’d been wondering since she’d been told he was hurt. “Guess we won’t be drinking the vodka tonight then,” she said as she moved it out of the way. “So. What happened?”
“Accident in the parking lot of that Mexican place near our office. Dad and Declan were in their own cars, and I guess I was just the unlucky one.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, which, to him, it wasn't. Or at least, it could have been much, much worse. He was trying to look at the bright side. “The guy came barreling into the lot without looking and hit me from behind, pushed me into a concrete pole.” He grimaced as he pictured the ruptured front end of his car, the crinkled rear end. He might be fine, but his car? Not so much.
“I have to ask—” She lifted her hand from his and brought it to her mouth, nibbling on her thumb nail. It was a nervous habit she'd had as long as he'd known her and it was somehow comforting to see her do it. Like nothing much had changed, even though he knew everything had changed.
“Ask what?” He wanted to grab her hand and pull it back to the cushion, to intertwine them, to anchor himself in her touch.
“How did your phone get broken in all that?” A frown formed on her brow, like she was trying to figure out the answer to a riddle.
Sebastian couldn't contain the laugh. “That's my favorite part. It didn't.”
“You—you lied?” The look on her face as she jumped to the wrong conclusion was a sucker punch. He knew she had reason—good reason—to be unsure of him still, but he wasn't lying.
He wouldn't lie to her again.
He would prove that to her, no matter what it took.
“No. No.” He emphasized his response, needing her to be sure of him.
“So . . .” She trailed off, waiting for an explanation.
“He threw it. The guy who hit me. I asked for his contact information, had my phone out to enter it in, and he just grabbed it from me. Threw it.” His laugh was a little darker this time. It might be funny but it was also a giant pain in the ass. “Impressive throw. Dec said he'd have signed him if he wasn't a,”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“felon and a fuckwit.”
Brighton’s eyes widened, her teeth working double time on her thumb. “What did the guy do?”
“Nothing. Cops arrived pretty quick, thank God. Hopefully it'll be sorted out soon.” He watched his Bright Star as she hesitated, then inched slightly closer, before hesitating again.
He was still thinking about stealing that hand back. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I assumed you’d lied.” She looked chagrined, but he shook his head, trying to show her it didn’t matter. He understood.
She moved closer again, a look on her face he couldn't seem to decipher. “Thank you,” she repeated. “For the book.” Her voice wobbled, sounding like she was seconds away from crying. “I-It was perfect. Where did you find it?”
Sebastian paused. He’d vowed to himself he'd never lie to her again, but he worried that what he was about to say might hurt her. The promise, though, was more important. Far more important. If she was hurt by what he had to say, he'd make it better. Somehow.
He braced himself for her response. “Your mom gave it to me.”
She gasped, shifting back slightly. “When?”
“Before I went away. I, shit, I talked to her after you told me about your dad. Asked her if she still had it.” He'd called Brighton’s mom, Rebecca, the day after she'd told him she wanted a copy of the book for their house and Rebecca had promised to look for it. He didn't think she'd find it but when she had, he started making plans.
He wanted to give it to her the day they moved in to their house. He gave her something else instead.
A reason to never trust in him again.
“She found it in a box in her attic. I was . . .” His heart began to race, his palms began to sweat. “I wanted to give it to you when we moved in. And then it all went to shit. I sent it to shit.”
“You've had it all this time? And you didn't think I'd want it?” She looked sad, but not angry. Small blessing, since the look on her face was heartbreaking at best. “It was a reminder of my mom and my dad.”
“I didn't know about your mom until I got back. I asked my parents and Declan not to tell me anything. Anything. I didn't think I could stay away otherwise.” He could barely stay away even without the knowledge she was al
one, she was hurting, she was grieving for their dream.
Her gaze was unwavering, unlike her voice, which shook as she tried to figure him out. “Why did you stay away then, if you didn't want to? I don't understand.”
“Because I wasn't ready.” He drew in a deep breath. “I wasn't ready to be the man you deserved. The man I always should have been for you. I nearly sent the book to you a thousand times. Not that I knew where you lived.” He ran a sweaty palm across his beard, wincing at the feel of it, but unable to stop the compulsion. “When I said I asked them to tell me nothing, I meant it. All I knew was that you were okay.”
Inexplicably, she moved closer to him once more. “You could have given it to Declan. He could have given it to me. Why didn't you?” Her green eyes searched his blue. Seeking answers.
“I wanted to give it to you. When I was better, when I could finally be what you needed without letting you down again. I had to.” He couldn't really explain the need, except that it felt like the answer. A symbol—for her, of her father’s love, for him, a promise to her. A promise to listen to her. To love her. To give her anything she wanted and everything she needed.
He opened his mouth to apologize for keeping it from her but she stopped him with a palm held up between them.
He watched as she took two long, deep breaths with her eyes closed, as if to center herself. He watched as she lowered her hand. He watched as she opened her eyes, looking at him through her lashes. He watched as she closed the rest of the distance between them on the couch, and leaned into him.
He watched as she pressed a whisper soft kiss on the side of his mouth.
And then, he acted.
Chapter Ten
Brighton wasn't sure what she'd been thinking, beyond the fact that his obvious nerves, and the original sweet gesture, made hating him—no, not him, rather, his actions—nearly impossible.
She might not be ready to completely forgive and forget just yet, but she also couldn't seem to stay away. Or stay angry.
With each grand gesture—and regardless of the size, they were all grand as far as she was concerned—her heart mended a little more. The voice inside her that said she didn't want him, didn't want anything to do with him, got quieter.
But kissing him? She hadn't planned it. It was supposed to be a soft peck on his cheek. Maybe slightly lower than his cheekbone, around the place where his dimple rose above his facial hair, so she could press her lips to the beard that made her a little crazy.
And by a little crazy, she meant a lot.
Instead, her kiss brushed on the edge of his lips when she leaned up to him, ending up midway between where she wanted to kiss him, and where she intended to kiss him. That brush tantalized her with a small taste of him—a taste that brought back so many memories of what it would be like to kiss him again.
And then . . . oh, and then he placed his hands on either side of her waist, applying gentle pressure as he lifted and turned her so that she was straddling his knees. She moved her hands around—to her lap, behind her back, to his shoulders, along the tattered neckline of his tee—unsure of what they were supposed to be doing, until he took control of them and wrapped them around his neck.
“Right there, Bright.” His blue eyes smiled at her as she linked her fingers together, enclosing him in the circle of her arms, and sighed.
It felt so right, being there with him. In his lap. In his arms. She opened her mouth to say that but before she had the chance, his mouth crashed against hers.
The kiss started frantic, a meeting of mouths that had been apart for far too long. His hands now back to her waist, he drew her forward so every part of her seemed to be touching every part of him.
She whimpered, and tried to press impossibly closer but Sebastian surprised her by halting her movements, the strength of his grip making her want him even more.
With his mouth still against hers, his breathing coming hard and fast, his eyes closed so tightly she wondered if it might hurt. If he might hurt.
The accident.
“Are you . . . did I?” She began to rear back, certain all of a sudden that her actions, her weight on his lap, had caused him pain but he stopped her by sliding his hands from her waist to the small of her back, dipping under the hem of her white tee, so she could feel the warmth of his rough palms against her. The movement was quick yet sensual, and she could have sworn he left a trail of something glittery, sparkling, bright on her skin.
“No.” His voice was barely audible, but insistent. “Don't move. Don't you fucking move.” His eyes remained closed and, as he brought his lips back to hers, she heard another whisper. “I need to show you . . .”
The second kiss was softer, a whisper like the voice that promised to show her. It was a caress, and she sank into it, moving with him as he possessed her, nibbling at her lips, slowly, oh, so slowly, running his tongue along the seam of her top and bottom lips, searching for entrance.
A sigh, followed by a growl. One from her, one from him, both saying the same thing.
Nothing compares to kissing you.
I’m kissing her. Sebastian couldn't believe it, didn't want to think on it, was afraid to jinx it. Because he wasn't just kissing Brighton. He had her straddling his lap, her hips rocking against him as their mouths met again and again, in short, soft bursts, and longer, deeper kisses.
After all this time, it felt the same. But different. He might even call it better, like missing her had made him appreciate every single thing he'd taken for granted.
He'd never take her for granted again.
Her hands, which had been linked behind his head—the weight of them at the base of his neck another sensation he couldn’t believe he was once again experiencing—suddenly thrust into his hair. Her long elegant fingers—the fingers of a piano player, he thought absurdly—left tingles in their wake as she gripped and released, gripped and released his dark locks.
“Brighton.” Her name was a breath on his lips, so quiet he could hardly hear himself over the sounds of their kissing.
“Seb,” was her equally quiet response, and his heart continued to pound as the seconds stretched to minutes.
It was like they wanted to remember who they were there with, the way they said each other’s name like it was the only word left in their vocabularies. He wanted to hold her there, in his arms, on his lap, forever. Or at least for the rest of the night. He'd worked hard to keep his hands at waist level, stroking them back and forth from her sides to meet in the middle of her lower back. The desire to slide them lower, over her curves, to grip her perfect ass was strong and growing stronger with each pass, and he warred with himself about what was to come.
Did he keep kissing, just kissing—something he could do forever—and wait for her to make the next move?
Did he let her go and hope that she stayed, urged him on?
Or did he gamble, that addicting rush, that exhilarating thrill? Not for money, not for the win, but for the chance to feel every glorious inch of her body, to watch her break apart in pleasure, to have her under him, over him, all around him.
Everywhere.
In the end, the choice wasn't his. As he bit and nibbled and tasted her lips, his mind racing with every possible decision he could make, she reached hers. With one final tangle of their tongues, she pulled back.
She didn't look away. She wasn't shy. She joined their eyes as intimately as their mouths had just been and gave him her truth. “I'm not ready yet. I don't—” Her struggle was clear on her face, and he couldn't make her say it.
If he was honest, he didn't want to hear her say it.
I don't know if I trust you enough yet.
He leaned in and gave her one final kiss, a quick meeting of lips, a farewell—for now—before she slid from his lap to the couch beside him.
Brighton’s lips were bruised from the ferocity of their kissing.
It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced before or since Sebastian and, she knew with certainty, no-one would ever b
e able to make her body talk to her in the way he had always been able to.
“You should get some rest,” she spoke gently, not yet wanting to face the reality that they’d kissed—and what that meant for them going forward. “It’s been a long day for you.”
Sebastian snorted. The farmyard sound made her snicker; such a childish noise from a grown man. “What?” He was looking at her as he asked the question and, though she’d broken eye and body contact when she’d climbed off him, she had the feeling he had not.
His eyes were locked firmly on her. And she could have sworn his phantom hands still brushed across her waist, holding her steady as she rocked and rolled above him.
“You snorted. What are you, six?” She was determined to get them back on a more playful, light footing. The tension from their kisses was still in the air, alternatively choking her and making her wish she was still astride him.
“I didn’t snort. I don’t snort.” He was shaking his head as he spoke, a flat denial of something Brighton knew to be true, mirth clear in his eyes despite his monotone.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” She rolled her eyes at him, happy that she’d succeeded in changing the atmosphere, making it fun in a way she suspected she’d been subconsciously reaching for since the moment she’d laid eyes on him in Panera.
They’d had moments of play in their text exchanges and in his gifts, but nothing like this. Nothing that included her seeing the joy in his face at their exchange, or feeling that amusement she was sure showed on her face.
“I didn’t,” he stated, emphatically, playing up his tone to match her six-year-old accusation. “Mo-om.” He moved his head in time with his faux-whiny tone, making Brighton’s amusement turn into a full blown belly laugh. “She wouldn’t even give me a damn sucker today,” he added, pretending to still be mad about being denied a treat when he’d been such a good boy as she’d administered care.
He was so ridiculous. “At least she gave you the good meds,” she joked lightly, enjoying watching Sebastian enjoy himself.