The warmth of the space surrounding them shivered, but he closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. Pressed another soft kiss to her cheek. “What are you afraid of?”
A huff of a laugh escaped her throat. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing with me.”
“No game.” He’d played games all his life. Had thought he was starting one with her when he had picked her up, but it didn’t feel like one now. He let his voice deepen. “I just want you.”
She looked away, off into a distance. “And that’s the thing.” Turning her gaze back to him, she said. “That’s the part that I don’t understand.”
Kate held herself together tightly as those words hung in the air. She could hardly believe she’d said them.
For God’s sake. She wasn’t a demurring flower or anything. She knew her weaknesses and her strengths: pretty enough but not a knockout, talented but not so talented she didn’t have to work hard. The idea that a guy wanted her wasn’t entirely the norm, but it was hardly an alien concept.
Men were good at telling a woman what they wanted to hear. And then turning into something else entirely the second you let your guard down. Her father had done it to her mother—had played with Kate’s head, too. Until she’d tried to push herself into a shape that was all wrong, just to please him, leaving her with phantom aches to this very day from twisting herself so hard.
He wasn’t the only one. Aaron had done it. And the guy at the bar that once . . .
Rylan pulled away, brows uneven as he stared at her. He hesitated for a moment, and she was ready for him to turn the charm on even higher. Spout some too-rehearsed poetry, or worse, start quoting One Direction lyrics. But then, instead, he tilted his head to the side and asked, “Who was it?”
Excuse me? “Who was who?”
“The person who made you think every man you came across would use you.”
Her breath caught in her throat as memories swamped her. But before she could go too far down that road, she pushed those thoughts from her mind. Laughed him off. “And who made you think you could spend an entire day trying to work your way into a stranger’s pants and then ask that kind of question?”
“Touché.” He grabbed her hand and held it to his chest. “But you’re deflecting. Which means I’m onto something. So who was it?”
Seriously? Was there anyone out there who didn’t teach a woman that? “Um. My mom? The US Senate? Law and Order: SVU?”
“No.” He shook his head. “What was his name?”
That made her pause. When he phrased it like that, she couldn’t help it. She’d been burned enough times now, but there were those still-lingering bruises, throbbing hotly in the center of her chest. She dropped her gaze and tried to tug her hand free. “It doesn’t matter.”
She didn’t want to think about her dad. Or about Aaron. About how she’d nearly made her mother’s mistakes all over again. She’d been such an idiot. Such a fool.
“Of course it does.” He let their hands fall from his chest, but he didn’t let go, wrapping his fingers around her palm. Rubbing his thumb into the tender spot in its center where the muscles always cramped from drawing. “Because I’m not him.” When she made another move to pull back, he held on even tighter. The heat in his tone abated, a forced casualness taking over. “I mean, sure. You’re not from around here. You’re only in town for, what? A few days? A week? It’s a fling. But a fling can be fun for both of us. I didn’t decide to spend the whole afternoon in an art museum or invest the absurd sum of nearly five euros on your dinner just because you were the first girl I happened to lay eyes on.”
That made her crack a smile. He ducked his chin, and brought his other hand up to touch the side of her face.
“See?” he said. “That right there. That goofy smile when you like one of my crappy jokes and don’t entirely want to admit it? That’s why I’m still here.”
“Just my smile?”
His gaze darted upward. “And your eyes. I like how they seem to watch everything.” He trailed his fingers down the line of her neck. “I like how you give me shit and don’t let me get away with anything.”
“You like a challenge?”
“A conversation. They’re hard to come by with the kind of life I lead.”
It hit someplace resonant inside of her. She’d come on this trip all on her own without really thinking about the solitude. How many times had she spent all-nighters in the studio, or locked herself in her tiny apartment for days to paint? Conversation wasn’t something she needed. But not being able to have it, being surrounded by a language she didn’t understand, even on the radio and the television . . . it was lonely. And Rylan made her feel anything but.
She faltered for a second. “And if you didn’t like any of those things?” She made her tone flippant, to try to hide how much his answer mattered. “You wouldn’t still be here, trying to get laid?”
“I might be.” His smile was lopsided. Soft and kissable. “But I wouldn’t care as much about whether or not it worked.” With that, he leaned down and pressed his lips to her hand. He lingered just a little too long, breath warm on her skin. Then he pulled away and rose, tugging gently to help her up. “Come on. Let me walk you to the Metro station.”
Her head was spinning as she stood. He’d just basically said he was invested now, but if he was offering to walk her to her train, did that mean he was giving up? For all her resistance, the idea of it made a little bubble of disappointment lodge in her throat.
Maybe she should kiss him. Make some kind of statement that no matter how uncertain she was about this, she wasn’t entirely ready for it to end.
Or maybe it was all for the best.
Mind working overtime, trying to sort out the possibilities, she followed him down the street. They walked side by side, hands entwined. When the entrance to the subway loomed, he slowed, stopping to lean up against a lamppost.
Her heart thundered behind her ribs. All her worries about him giving up had been premature, because the way he was looking at her now didn’t even begin to speak of resignation. Leaning in close, he cupped her face with his palm, fingers weaving themselves through her hair.
He nosed at her temple, and his breath was warm against her ear. “Invite me back to your hotel.”
God, she was tempted. Her bones felt watery, and there was a heat coiling up in her abdomen, flames fanned by the scent of him. By the subtle press of his body to hers. Her chin tilted back, spine arching ever so slightly.
But then her breath caught in her throat. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” He danced his fingertips up her arm and pressed his lips to the column of her throat.
“I—” She couldn’t even remember why. Except—Oh, right. “Can’t. Actually can’t.” Why was her voice so breathy, her skin so sensitive? “Cheap hostel, remember? Roommates.”
“All those friends you said you were traveling with?”
“Worse. Strangers.”
“Strangers you don’t want to know what you sound like when you come?”
Jesus. Part of her wanted to grab him by the collar and pull him down into that subway, just for the heat of that promise.
A promise no man had ever bothered to make to her before. A promise no man had ever managed to fulfill.
His words and kisses were all persuasiveness, like he could feel her wavering on the point of indecision. “Because,” he continued, “this may be a fling.” He pulled his lips from her skin, shifting until his face was right in front of her. His eyes burned hot and dark. “But I promise. You will get exactly as much out of it as I will. More, if you’re willing to show me what you like.”
And goddammit. Men broke their promises—they did it all the time, but she wanted to believe this one. She’d had sex only once since she and Aaron had broken up, and it had been awful. Worse than it had been with Aaron even, and after everything . . . didn’t she deserve something good?