He turns back around and any hint of expression previously on his face is gone. “I asked you to stay.” He says the words as if they’re the only apology he’s giving for his actions. “That’s all I can give you right now, Rylee. All I’m good for.” His voice is gruff and laced with what I think is regret. I feel as if he’s trying to tell me so much more with these words but I’m not sure what. The words hang between us for a moment, his jaw clenched, eyes intense.

I snort loudly, uncomfortable with the silence, trying not to read too much into his words. “C’mon Colton, we both know you didn’t mean it.” I rise from the carpet, grabbing my hair and twisting it quickly into a bun. He takes a couple of steps toward me, his lips twisting as if that action alone will prevent him from saying more. We stand a few feet apart, staring at each other, and each waiting for the other to make the next move. I shrug before looking down and twisting the ring on my right ring finger. I look back up at him, hoping my explanation will stifle any questions he has about having to manage my expectations of a possible future. Baggage equals drama to him, and he’s already admitted to me that he hates drama. “Let’s just say I left last night for reasons you don’t want to know about.” His eyes remain on mine, silently asking for more. I huff loudly. “I’ve got lots of excess baggage, Ace.”

I wait for the deep exhale from him—the impassive expression to glaze over his face reflecting a man distancing himself from complication, but neither happens. Instead, Colton’s mouth widens into a cocky smile and his green eyes fill with humor—both of which ease the severity of his countenance. “Oh, Rylee,” he empathizes with a trace of amusement in his voice, “I know all about baggage, sweetheart. I have enough of it to fill up a 747 and then some.” Despite his smiling façade, I see the darkness flicker in his eyes momentarily as some unpleasant thought holds his memory.

Holy shit. What can I say to that? How do I respond to him when he’s just hinted at a dark, sordid past? What the hell happened to him? I stare at him, eyes wide and my teeth worrying my bottom lip back and forth. Is this why he doesn’t do the girlfriend thing? I mean, talk about going from fun, flirty banter to a serious conversation. And why does this seem to be a common occurrence for us?

Because he matters. Because this matters. The words flicker through my head, and I have to push them away, afraid to believe.

He takes a step closer to me, and I lower my eyes momentarily to the visible beat of his pulse at the base of his jaw. My hands want to reach out and touch him. Console him even. To feel the warmth of his skin beneath my palms. I sigh softly before I look back up at him, a suggestive smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “This could be interesting,” he murmurs as he reaches out to play with an errant curl on the side of my face. His fingers roam to my haphazard bun and tug the self-sustaining knot. My hair tumbles free, falling down my back in a waterfall of curls. He runs a hand through it, stopping at the nape of my neck where my hair is damp with sweat. I cringe at the thought but he doesn’t seem to mind as he fists his hand in it, holding my curls ransom so that I can’t look away from him.

“How so?” I ask, a charge jolting through me, arousing me, at the possessive nature of his hold. He mesmerizes me; his eyes, the lines of his face, his sensuous mouth, the way his muscles pulse in his jaw when conflicted.

“Well, it seems that your baggage makes you so scared to feel you constantly pull away. Run from me,” his voice rasps, as he lazily trails a fingertip down my bare shoulder. I struggle to prevent my body from automatically leaning into his addictive touch. My body just reacts so instinctively to him that I can’t stop myself. He tilts his head to the side, watching my reaction. “Whereas mine? My baggage? It makes me crave the sensory overload of physicality—the stimulating indulgence of skin on skin. Of you beneath me.”

And therein lies the problem—when he refers to me, he speaks of feelings and emotions and when he refers to himself he is speaking of physical contact. I try to turn my mind off. I try to tell myself that the physical contact is what I want from him too. The only thing that I can have from him. Acknowledge it’s the only part he’ll share of himself with me.

It’s an easy thing to remember because Colton leans forward and brushes his lips tenderly against mine. All conflicting thoughts disappear with his touch. A soft sigh of a kiss that we slowly sink into. I part my lips for him, his tongue slipping inside to stroke gently and meld with mine. Unhurried, lazy strokes of tongue and fingertips as he runs them over my bare shoulders and up the vertebrae on my neck. I could kiss him like this forever in this hazy state of desire. His earthy scent envelopes me, his heady taste consumes me, and his incendiary touch ignites me. He groans with our kiss, the rumble of it caught within me, vibrating through me.

A warm, soothing ache seeps into my chest and spreads throughout the rest of my body. I turn my mind off and allow myself to just feel. To revel in the sensations that he evokes within me. He is my fire on a cold night, the sun warming my skin on a cool spring morning, the wind caressing my face on an autumn day—he is everything that makes me feel alive, and whole, and beautiful.

And desired.

I slide my hands under the hem of his shirt and splay them wide across his lower back. His taut skin heats beneath my touch. I need this connection with him like I need sunlight. For when we touch like this, when I can feel him like this, I have no doubt that I can do this. That I can be what he needs me to be for however long he’ll allow it. For the chance to be with him, to remain under his spell, I will push my needs aside and bury them so deeply that I can be whom he wants.

Colton cups my face in his hands, the kiss softening, stopping with a brush of lips so gentle that it sends chills up my spine. I sigh softly into him as he wraps his arms around me, strong muscles pulling me into the comfort of his warmth. I rest my head on his chest, smelling clean linen and fresh soap. I can hear his heart beating, strong and steady against my ear. I close my eyes, wanting this moment to last forever.

He rests his chin atop my head. I can hear him inhale a shaky breath before he speaks. “It’s unfathomable how much I want you, Rylee.” He pulls me tighter into him. “How much I’m drawn to you.”

I bask silently in his admission, a small smile on my lips. Maybe I do affect him. I shake the thought from my head, not wanting to overcomplicate, overanalyze or over think the simplicity and the sweetness of this moment between us.

“Rylee?”

“Hmmm?”

“Go out with me—on a real date.” I can feel his body tense against mine with his words, as if it’s painful to ask. To admit he wants this from me. “Go out with me, not because I paid for a date with you but because you want to.”

Elation soars through me at the thought of getting to see him again. Of spending time with him again.

“Say yes, Ryles,” he murmurs with a quiet desperation as he kisses the top of my head. “It’s unimaginable how much I want you to say yes.”

I lean back, shocked by the vulnerability I hear in his voice and sense in his body language. Why is he afraid I’ll say no when everyone else would say yes? I raise my eyes to his, trying to read the emotions flashing through the stark green of them. I see passion and humor, desire and challenge, promise and fear. Why does this beautifully tormented man want to spend time with ordinary me? I don’t have the answer but I know in this moment, looking at him, I can see so much more in his eyes than I think he wants me to. And what I see, it scares me on so many levels that I have to tuck it away for later when I’m all alone. I can analyze it then. Replay it then.

Hope then.

I raise a hand to run it against the roughness of his slight stubble, liking its coarseness beneath my fingers. The texture tells me that this moment is real. That he is really here with me. I lean up on my tiptoes and place a soft, closed-mouth kiss on his wonderfully sculpted lips. “Yes,” I breathe and with my answer, regardless of all of the psychological propaganda I barrage myself with, I know that Colton Donavan has just put the first fissure in the protective wall around my heart.

He nods his head subtly, a shy smile on his face, no words expressed. He pulls me into him one more time. “Tonight?” he asks.

I still, mentally looking over my calendar, knowing that I have no plans but not wanting to seem too eager.

“I’ll be here at six to pick you up, Rylee,” he decides for me before I have a chance to answer. He releases me and looks me in the eye to make sure that I hear him. All trace of vulnerability is long gone when I meet his eyes. It’s been replaced with the implacable confidence that is synonymous with his public persona.

I bite my bottom lip and nod in agreement, suddenly feeling shy.

He cups my chin, running the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “See you then, sweetheart.”

“Bye,” I exhale, already missing him.

He walks to the front door, opens it, and then turns back to me, “Hey, Ryles?”

“Hmmm-hmmm.”

“No more running away from me,” he cautions before flashing a quick grin and closing the door behind him. With his departure, I can suddenly breathe again. His presence is so strong, so overpowering, it overwhelms the room. Infiltrates my senses. With him gone, I feel like I can process what just happened. Finally breathe.

I stand facing the door, and close my eyes absorbing everything that has just transpired. Nothing is solved. None of my questions are answered: Why he doesn’t do the girlfriend thing? What is this between us since it’s not a one-night stand? What was he really going to say when he said I made him, but never finished? What is he trying to protect me from? What kind of baggage fills his 747?