was over before it barely started.
Celia touched her lips with a trembling hand, her chewed nails hinting at how frayed her nerves had been lately. “Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I pride myself on being wiser these days.”
No offers to make up the couch for him. Definitely no offer for him to come to her room. He hadn’t expected otherwise … although a man could hope.
“We don’t always want what’s good for us.”
“True enough. I got caught up in the memories from the music. The fact that you remembered the song from before … Well, I would have to be heartless not to be moved. Except, now reason has set in. If I follow through on that kiss, Europe is going to be very awkward—”
“Celia, it’s okay. You don’t need to explain or say anything more.” He traced his thumb along her mouth. “I won’t go psycho because you don’t invite me into your bed after one kiss.”
Still, his mind filled with the fantasy of tearing each other’s clothes off, of carrying her over to the piano and sitting her on the keyboard, where he would step between her legs and bury himself deep inside this woman who’d always moved him in a way no other could.
Which had him wondering if perhaps they could indulge in more. If it was every bit as inevitable now as it had been eighteen years ago.
Indecision shifted in her dark brown eyes. Could she really be considering it? His pulse ratcheted up to never-before-tested speeds. Except, then she shook her head and turned away.
“I can’t do this,” she mumbled, backing away until his hand slid from her face. From the hall closet, she pulled out a stack of sheets and a pillow, then tugged a quilt from the back of the sofa. “Good night, Malcolm.”
She thrust the linens against his chest and pivoted on her heels before he could say a word. No question, she was every bit as rattled as he was. Resisting the urge to go after her, he still allowed himself to savor watching the gentle sway of her hips as she left. His body throbbed in response, and he knew the feel of her would stay imprinted on him long after she closed her bedroom door.
Silence echoed after her, the scent of lavender wafting up from the sheets she’d given him. He hadn’t slept on a sofa since his early days in the music industry, going to college on scholarship in the mornings, still half-asleep from playing late-night gigs. He’d gotten a degree in music with a minor in accounting because, by God, no manager was ever going to take advantage of his finances. He refused to be one of those musicians who made billions only to file for bankruptcy later. He knew what poverty was like and how it hurt the people around him—how he’d hurt the people around him because of his own dumb decisions.
He was in control these days.
Shrugging the tension out of his shoulders, he tossed aside the sheet and shook out the blanket. He stayed at five-star penthouse suites on a regular basis, but he’d never forgotten where he came from—and he damn well never would. The day a person got complacent was the day someone robbed them blind.
He refused to be caught flat-footed ever again. The lowest day of his life had been sitting in that police cell, arrested for drug possession. Wondering what Celia thought. Hating that he’d let his mother down.
The part that still stuck in his craw? For some twisted reason, his brush with the law made him all the more alluring to fans. The press had spun it into a “bad turned good” kind of story. He didn’t want fans glorifying him or the things he’d done.
His mistakes were his own. He took responsibility for his past. Atonement wasn’t something to parade around for others to applaud. Receiving praise diminished the power of anything he might have done right.
Speaking of atonement …
He tugged the leather briefcase from beside the sofa. His driver had left the essentials. He pulled out his tablet computer to check for an update from Salvatore on Celia.
Because, with memories of that kiss still heating his blood, he sure as hell wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon.
Celia kept her eyes closed even though she’d woken up at least ten minutes ago after a restless night’s sleep. Her white-noise machine filled the room with the sound of soothing waves. She snuggled deeper under the covers, groggy and still so sexually strung tight her skin was oversensitive to the Egyptian cotton sheets. Just one kiss, and she was already burning up for Malcolm Douglas again.
The thought of facing him was mortifying—and a little scary. What if she walked out there, lost control and plastered herself all over him again?
Last night’s kiss had rocked her to her toes. And the way Malcolm hadn’t pressed her to hop right into bed together? That rattled her even more. But then, he hadn’t pressured her as a teenager, either. She’d been the aggressor. She’d known him for years. They’d shared a music teacher, even performed at recitals together. But something had changed when they both came back from summer break, entering their sophomore year.
Her friend had gotten hot.
The other high-school girls had noticed, too. But she’d been determined. He was hers. No one had ever denied her anything, and she could see now how that had made her all the more determined to win him over. Her selfishness had played a part in how recklessly fast she’d pursued him.
She’d justified her actions by noting the interest in his eyes. Except, he’d insisted he didn’t have the time or money for dating. He’d told her they couldn’t be anything more than friends. She’d told him she didn’t need fancy romancing. She just wanted him….
After they’d been dating for five months, she’d feared she was losing him. His mother had been filling out applications for scholarships for him to attend a special high school for the arts. Celia understood Terri Ann Douglas wanted the best for her son, but it seemed the push for him to attend school out of town had more to do with getting him away from Celia than obtaining a better music education.
Or at least that was how it had appeared in her self-centered teenage mind.
Already she’d felt as if she barely got to see him between his job and their music lessons and their eagle-eyed parents. Still, they’d stolen time alone together to make out, talk, dream—make out some more. Their make-out sessions had grown hotter, as hot as possible without going all the way.
She recalled every detail of that whole day, the day she’d lost her virginity. She remembered what she wore—pink jeans and a rock-band T-shirt. What she ate—cereal, an apple and not much else, because she wanted to keep fitting into those jeans.
Most of all, she remembered what it felt like stretched out on the backseat of her car with Malcolm, parked by the river at night. She’d already pitched her shirt and bra onto the floor, along with his shirt, too, because there was nothing like the feel of her breasts against his bare chest. Her hand tunneled down his pants, and he was working the zipper on her pink jeans. They’d already learned how to give each other orgasms by stroking to take the edge off the gnawing need.
Except, that night she’d been selfish. Scared of losing him. And most of all, she’d been stupid.
They hadn’t used a condom.
Although she’d still needed him to finish her with his hand afterward because it hadn’t been anywhere near as earth-shattering as she’d expected. Not the first time.
