Not About Love

Chapter Twelve

Sometimes I fantasized about talking to Jules or Braden, about spilling my guts to them instead of someone I paid to listen to me. The choices I'd made, and some that were made for me, had warped my perception quite a bit. It was part of why I preferred spending so much time buried in books. Books you could get attached to and they'd never die on you.

What would Braden say if I told him my last memory of my dad was his broken body, covered in wires and tubes, plaster and bandages, arching and flopping on the bed as the doctors shocked his heart into rhythm? Would Julianne be horrified if I told her I refused to leave the room as my grandpa struggled for his last breaths?

Braden might understand. He was around sick people every day. He'd know what it was like to experience death in Technicolor.

His body curved around mine, and the weight of his arm draped around my waist. Now. Tell him now. Kick him out of bed and be done with it. He kissed my neck, his hand spreading against my abdomen. Already I was softening, wanting to have one more moment with him. "Lisle." His voice was husky from sleep. The pressure he put on my hip, however, indicating he wanted me to roll over, told me he was definitely awake.

I obliged him. His blond hair was mussed from sleep, his eyes hazed with it. His stubble coated jaw was rough under my palm. Pale light streamed around the edges of the curtains, and through the cracked open window came the passing sounds of traffic, birds screaming at one another.

Tangling his fingers in my hair, he continued to regard me with those sleep dazed eyes. "Better this morning?"

I frowned. "Better than what? I'm fine." As fine as I was going to get, anyway.

He stared at me for so long I began wondering if I had drool crusted on my chin or something. "What?"

"Nothing," he muttered. He dropped his head and nuzzled the spot under my ear, a whimper sneaking past my lips as he nipped into the delicate skin. "What time is it?" he whispered.

I twisted my head to see the clock, arching when his teeth scraped the line of my throat. "Nine thirty!" I blurted.

"Hmmph. Not quite enough time. Have to make do."

I had no doubt "making do" would end with the two of us limp and gasping for breath, and I was right. What I hadn't anticipated was the desperate intensity on his face as we'd rocked together, pushing it beyond fucking into untried waters. I couldn't remember the last time I'd come so hard, and Braden had ensured I'd had plenty of spectacular orgasms so far.

"Perfect." The word was muffled by my skin, Braden's lips moving against my neck. "You're perfect. You've ruined me for all other women."

The flippant comment pierced the spell, and I snorted, my stomach clenching in disappointment. Is this how Justin felt? Searching for more when there wasn't anything there? Braden's words were struggling to find purchase in my mind, trying to convince me he didn't have any reason to lie. Maybe he didn't believe in love because he'd never met a woman who made him think it was possible.

If I swallowed that line, I deserved to sink.

Better, I thought, to take it as it happens. Hadn't I thought earlier yesterday evening that we were fumbling along just fine? We were. We were no longer friends. Lovers, certainly. Did being lovers imply a whole new level of trust?

I didn't have any more time to contemplate it. Braden's voice broke through my reverie. "As much as I want to spend the entire day in bed with you, we should get up. Or at least I should. I've got to meet the realtor in a little over an hour." A strange light went on in his eyes. Nerves? Was he nervous? "Did you still want to come with me?"