know?’
‘Because I’m curious.’
He hitched a shoulder, but the movement was stiff, defensive. ‘It’s no biggie. I was wild as a kid. I did loads of dumb stuff.’
She smoothed her fingers over the hair she’d pulled, the hollow weight in her abdomen making her want to soothe. ‘Libby told me you had a tough childhood. I’m sure whatever you did, it wasn’t really your fault.’
The rumble of laughter wasn’t what she had expected. Nor the crooked smile. ‘God, you’re cute when you’re earnest.’
‘I hardly think it’s funny.’
‘Sure it is. I can see you making up all sorts of sob stories about me and my deprived childhood.’ His hand sunk to her bottom, and curved over the flesh he’d made sting. ‘My mom and me lived in a trailer park. It wasn’t great, especially in the wintertime, because the insulation on those things is for shit. And she worked nights and slept most of the day, which meant I could do what the hell I liked without any parental supervision. But none of that gives me a free pass for being a troublemaking little shit—which is exactly what I was.’
She stiffened in his arms, the hollow weight growing heavy in her stomach at the bitterness in his voice. ‘Maybe it doesn’t excuse it, but it does explain it,’ she said, keen to defend the boy he’d been, even if he refused to.
‘Does it?’ His hands tightened on her waist and his lips twisted, the smile unbearably cynical.
‘Of course it does. And it certainly didn’t give your stepmother the right to treat you with so little compassion after your mother died.’
His lips quirked, not the reaction she’d expected from her impassioned speech in his defence. ‘So Libby told you a load of bullshit about that, too.’
‘How is it bullshit?’
‘For a start, my mom didn’t die. Her…’ He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘One of her boyfriends took exception to my smart mouth and kicked the shit out of me. So I hitched the five hundred miles to Newport, figuring I could fool the rich stiff named on my birth certificate into taking me in. And it worked. For a while.’ He shrugged, calmly dismissing whatever had happened in his father’s home. ‘By sixteen I was on my own—and it forced me to get my shit together. End of story.’
‘But that’s dreadful. You were only a child.’
He shook his head, sending her a pitying look. ‘Honey, I was fourteen going on thirty with a piss-poor attitude when I got to Newport. My old man made Elizabeth take me in because he felt guilty. She didn’t want some little trailer-trash bastard messing up her perfect life and who can blame her?’
‘I can. You needed help and understanding, not criticism. Can’t you see that?’ she added, distressed at the thought of what he must have gone through when his father and stepmother had rejected him, too. ‘Surely they owed you that much? To at least try?’
‘Are you for real?’ He huffed out a laugh. ‘No one owes anyone anything. You’re on your own. All I needed was to figure that out.’
She pressed her palms to the soft hair on his chest, determined not to be distracted by the mocking light in his eyes, or the way his fingers were toying with her nipple again.
‘All you needed was someone to care about you,’ she said softly.
She touched his cheek, felt the rasp of his stubble, her throat full and aching. Did his childhood explain the dominance that seemed so much a part of his personality? Did his rigid control come not just from the healthy pursuit of great sex, but also from the need to control his feelings? From the desire to keep people at a distance, so no one could reject him again?
He grasped her fingers, gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Damn, who knew there was a bleeding heart hiding behind the ball-busting front?’
She wanted to protest, to tell him she knew what it was like to be rejected. That she understood. But how could she tell him that without exposing her own need?
His lips brushed her
‘Because I’m curious.’
He hitched a shoulder, but the movement was stiff, defensive. ‘It’s no biggie. I was wild as a kid. I did loads of dumb stuff.’
She smoothed her fingers over the hair she’d pulled, the hollow weight in her abdomen making her want to soothe. ‘Libby told me you had a tough childhood. I’m sure whatever you did, it wasn’t really your fault.’
The rumble of laughter wasn’t what she had expected. Nor the crooked smile. ‘God, you’re cute when you’re earnest.’
‘I hardly think it’s funny.’
‘Sure it is. I can see you making up all sorts of sob stories about me and my deprived childhood.’ His hand sunk to her bottom, and curved over the flesh he’d made sting. ‘My mom and me lived in a trailer park. It wasn’t great, especially in the wintertime, because the insulation on those things is for shit. And she worked nights and slept most of the day, which meant I could do what the hell I liked without any parental supervision. But none of that gives me a free pass for being a troublemaking little shit—which is exactly what I was.’
She stiffened in his arms, the hollow weight growing heavy in her stomach at the bitterness in his voice. ‘Maybe it doesn’t excuse it, but it does explain it,’ she said, keen to defend the boy he’d been, even if he refused to.
‘Does it?’ His hands tightened on her waist and his lips twisted, the smile unbearably cynical.
‘Of course it does. And it certainly didn’t give your stepmother the right to treat you with so little compassion after your mother died.’
His lips quirked, not the reaction she’d expected from her impassioned speech in his defence. ‘So Libby told you a load of bullshit about that, too.’
‘How is it bullshit?’
‘For a start, my mom didn’t die. Her…’ He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘One of her boyfriends took exception to my smart mouth and kicked the shit out of me. So I hitched the five hundred miles to Newport, figuring I could fool the rich stiff named on my birth certificate into taking me in. And it worked. For a while.’ He shrugged, calmly dismissing whatever had happened in his father’s home. ‘By sixteen I was on my own—and it forced me to get my shit together. End of story.’
‘But that’s dreadful. You were only a child.’
He shook his head, sending her a pitying look. ‘Honey, I was fourteen going on thirty with a piss-poor attitude when I got to Newport. My old man made Elizabeth take me in because he felt guilty. She didn’t want some little trailer-trash bastard messing up her perfect life and who can blame her?’
‘I can. You needed help and understanding, not criticism. Can’t you see that?’ she added, distressed at the thought of what he must have gone through when his father and stepmother had rejected him, too. ‘Surely they owed you that much? To at least try?’
‘Are you for real?’ He huffed out a laugh. ‘No one owes anyone anything. You’re on your own. All I needed was to figure that out.’
She pressed her palms to the soft hair on his chest, determined not to be distracted by the mocking light in his eyes, or the way his fingers were toying with her nipple again.
‘All you needed was someone to care about you,’ she said softly.
She touched his cheek, felt the rasp of his stubble, her throat full and aching. Did his childhood explain the dominance that seemed so much a part of his personality? Did his rigid control come not just from the healthy pursuit of great sex, but also from the need to control his feelings? From the desire to keep people at a distance, so no one could reject him again?
He grasped her fingers, gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Damn, who knew there was a bleeding heart hiding behind the ball-busting front?’
She wanted to protest, to tell him she knew what it was like to be rejected. That she understood. But how could she tell him that without exposing her own need?
His lips brushed her
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