Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Page 5

  My eyes close and my thoughts are muted.

  I want to touch him.

  I want to reach for him.

  But I’m not sure if that would be appropriate. I have no idea why he’s kissing me or what his intentions are, and I’m not sure why I’m standing here letting him do this, my body all but offering itself up to him on a quaking, quivering silver platter.

  But we’re kissing.

  He’s kissing me.

  And it feels so good to be kissed that I could cry.

  I could weep like a baby.

  Nobody’s ever kissed me this way; so gentle, so sweet. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m breakable. Like I’m precious.

  All my life, I’ve known how people see me.

  They see this spitfire personality with opinions blasting from her lips every five seconds. They see someone who regularly jet sets across the globe like she’s some kind of fearless. They see someone who’s had her heart smashed dozens of times and has the audacity to try, again and again, foolishly, to fall in love.

  But what they don’t see is how truly delicate my heart is. They don’t see how heavy it is when I think about how much love it has to give. They don’t see how fast it beats when I lock eyes with a man who could potentially hold my entire future in the palm of his hand.

  I want to love.

  And I want to be loved.

  And I want someone who kisses me like this, so soft and slow it makes me forget how to breathe.

  He pulls his mouth from mine a moment later, our eyes meeting in a veil of lust-struck confusion, at least on my end.

  His lips, subtly pink from kissing me, pull up at the sides just enough. “Happy fucking New Year.”

  Chapter 5

  Cristiano

  Holy shit.

  Did I just fucking kiss her?

  My mouth pulses in time with my pounding heart.

  Daphne stares up at me, all wide-eyed and bewildered, her full lips swollen from my kiss.

  I’d been sitting on the sofa a minute ago when I realized it was almost midnight. All I meant to do was rap on the bathroom door and tell her it was almost the new year. Despite the fact that she damn near bit my head off earlier, I didn’t think it was right to let her miss it.

  But then she opened the door, enveloped in a cloud of steam, her light blonde hair stuck to her soft skin and little hints of her tan, bare flesh playing off the white robe that covered her wet body. I saw her, and I just lost all control.

  I had to kiss her.

  My hands finally leave her trembling body, and I step away. I think about apologizing and then immediately talk myself out of it because I’m not sorry. I kissed her, and I won’t apologize for it because it was fucking fantastic. Her lips were pillow soft and tasted like champagne, and when the scent of roses left her damp skin, it was the perfect storm.

  Neither of us stood a chance.

  She lifts her fingertips to her mouth, gently touching the spot I’d claimed moments before. I expect her to ask why I kissed her. I almost expect her to slap me across the face. But she just stands there, stunned and staring.

  I have to own this now.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Daphne,” I say in all sincerity. “And it’s midnight on New Year’s Eve. A woman like you should be kissed like that on a night like this.”

  Despite the fact that I sound like some cheesy male lead in a romance movie right now, I mean it. I mean every word of it. Pulling in a deep breath, I ready myself with a disclaimer. I want to tell her this doesn’t mean anything, that I’m not trying to get laid. That I’m not like that.

  But when her eyes brim with tears and a single track rolls down her cheek, I silence myself.

  Fuck.

  She brushes past me, wiping her eyes on the back of her left hand.

  “I’m sorry. Shit. I’m so sorry.” I go to her because I can’t stand back here and witness her falling apart at the seams because of something I did. Out of instinct, I place my hand on the small of her back because it doesn’t occur to me that touching her after I just kissed her like that, without permission, might not be the greatest idea. “Daphne, talk to me.”

  She says nothing as her shoulders heave and fall with silent tears. Her hands cover her face now.

  “Daphne,” I say, almost tempted to spin her around to face me. “I’ll stay somewhere else tonight. I’ll sleep on a park bench if you want. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Turning, our gazes meet. Her hands fall to her sides and her cheeks are wet with tears. “That was really nice of you.”

  Trying not to laugh because I’m not quite understanding, I ask, “What?”

  She faces me completely, gazing up and drying her cheeks on the sleeves of her robe. “The way you kissed me. It was nice. Nobody’s ever kissed me like that before.”

  Releasing a held breath, I relax a little. “Oh, yeah?”

  “I know it didn’t mean anything,” she says, waving her hand. “I . . . I guess it just stirred something in me. It unraveled me.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I play it safe and lend her an ear and one hundred percent of my attention. I try not to let my mind wander, but I can’t help but assume she’s probably one of those girls who cries after sex.

  Never would’ve pegged her as one of those. She seems so . . . strong-willed? Stubborn? Mouthy?

  “God, I feel like an idiot right now. I’m so embarrassed. Really. I am.” She laughs through misty eyes. “You have every right to think I’m certifiably insane after today. I think you’ve seen just about every side of me all in the span of about ten hours.”

  “Lucky me.” I flash a half-smirk that lets her know I don’t mind.

  She laughs.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” I say. “Complex maybe. But not crazy.”

  Daphne bites her lip as she looks up at me. “Can we pretend like this didn’t happen?”

  “What? Pretend I didn’t kiss you or pretend you didn’t cry?”

  She glances down, pushing a breath through her nostrils. “Both.”

  Smoothing my hand along my jaw, I chuff. “If that’s what you want.”

  She plops onto the edge of the bed, her hands falling loosely in her lap. Exhaling, she says, “That was, easily, the best kiss I’ve ever had in my life. And now, every time I look back on this moment, I’m going to cringe.”

  I take a seat next to her.

  “Story of my life,” she says, shaking her head. “All the good moments somehow become cringe-worthy.”

  “That’s a sign that you’re doing it right,” I say.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Leaning back on my elbows, I say, “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know if that means you’re doing it right. It just sounded good in my head.”

  Daphne laughs, and I’m relieved. Her smile lights up her whole face, like it’s almost too big, and her eyes crinkle in the corners.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” she says. Her smile fades gradually, and she turns to me. “Have you really been to all those places and seen all those things?”

  I nod. “I have.”

  She rolls to her side, cupping her hand under her chin, and studies me with furrowed brows. “You’re adventurous.”

  “Are you asking or stating?”

  “Observing.”

  “What about you? You do any traveling?” I ask.

  She nods. “I lived in Paris for a year. We’d take weekend trips sometimes. Mostly places like London, Dublin, Brussels. Sometimes Amsterdam. I always wanted to veer off the beaten path. I wanted to seek adventure and try everything there was to try. But the guy I was with at the time, he only wanted to go to art museums and clubs where his name was permanently etched on VIP lists.”

  “Was he famous, this guy?”

  Daphne rolls her eyes. “In the international art scene, yes. I’m sure he’s nobody you’ve ever heard of.”

  “Try me.”

  “Pierre DuBois. He’s a painter. An abstract exp
ressionist. And a womanizer.” She exhales. “But anyway.”

  “Sounds like a tool.”

  Daphne laughs. “He was a tool. A total tool. Just wish I’d have known that at the time. I thought he was pretty amazing for a while. He crushed me.”

  Her smile fades, and her eyes grow despondent. She’s looking at me, but she’s not.

  “He was my first love,” she says in a way that almost makes my heart break. Her voice cracks and then she chuckles one time. “I was twenty-three, and I didn’t know much about the real world, but I was certain I knew what love felt like and I would’ve sworn on my life that he truly loved me.”

  “First loves do that to you,” I say. “They rip your heart out and you never really get it back. You might get bits and pieces. But it’s never intact and it’s never the whole thing.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Her lips twist in the corners. “A year ago, I thought I was in love with this football player. His friend was dating my sister, that’s how we met. And we just . . . clicked. We stayed up all night talking once, and I fell hard and fast and without any kind of warning. It wasn’t gradual. It just . . . happened.” Daphne glances at the comforter beneath her and then reaches to pick at a thread. “But the more I got to know him, the more we talked about our pasts and poured our hearts out, the more I realized he was still in love with his ex. She was his first love, and he never really got over her. So I let him go.”

  “Psh.” I scoff. “Sometimes people need time. Maybe you were going to be the one to help him get over her?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Now you’ll never know,” I say. “You pushed him away before you had the chance to see.”

  “I pushed him away because I saw the train wreck about to unfold in the distance,” she defends herself. “It was inevitable, and it was pointless to stick around waiting for my heart to break.”

  “So what happened when you told him he was still in love with his ex?”

  She’s quiet for a moment, inhaling softly. “He denied it at first. And I thought maybe I was wrong. But the next day we met up and he told me he’d stayed up all night thinking about all the things I said. And he told me I was right. He still loved her.”

  Pushing a hard breath past my lips, I wince when I see the hurt reliving in her baby blues. I can only hope talking about this is somewhat cathartic for her because she’s practically radiating pain.

  “They got back together,” she continues. “At least for a while. I heard they broke up again.”

  “You should reach out to him.”

  Her face scrunches and she shakes her head hard. “No, no. He tries to get a hold of me sometimes, but I let his calls go to voicemail. I don’t know what he wants, and I don’t know what I’d say to him.”

  “Do you still miss him?”

  Her eyes flick into mine. “Like crazy sometimes. Other times, I refuse to let myself think about him because what’s the point? What good does it do me to dwell in the past?”

  “Did you love him?”

  Her eyes narrow. “I thought I did. I also thought I loved Pierre. I don’t think I know what love is anymore.”

  “Fool’s love,” I say. “There’s love and then there’s fool’s love, kind of like how there’s gold and then there’s fool’s gold. Sometimes it looks like love and it acts like love and it feels like love, but it’s just a cheap imitation.”

  “So how do you tell the difference?”

  Rolling on my side, I face her, our eyes locking. “I don’t think there’s always a way to tell. At least not at first. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. You have to wait it out. The real love always lasts. The fool’s love kind of . . . falls apart at the seams the second shit gets real.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “It’s okay not to have all the answers, Daphne,” I say. “Sometimes you just have to live your life and not worry about if and when and how you’re going to get hurt next.”

  Her mouth pulls up in one corner. “Easy for you to say. I bet you’ve never had your heart broken before.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask me to tell her about the girl who obliterated my heart years ago. I’m not in the mood to talk about her.

  She rolls her eyes. “Mm hm. Right.”

  Curling the corner of my mouth, I say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You look like a heartbreaker,” she says. “That’s what that means.”

  “And what does a heartbreaker look like, exactly?”

  “A heartbreaker walks with confidence, knows how to command a room, and has a stare that makes a girl go weak in the knees,” she says. “He’s handsome. Sometimes too handsome. And he knows it. He’s used to getting what he wants, and God save the woman he sets his sights on because she won’t stand a chance.”

  Trying to hide the fact that she just flattered the hell out of me, I shrug. “Yeah, well, I don’t know about all of that.”

  Daphne sits up, taking in a long breath and letting it go. Her body relaxes and she gently punches my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” she says. “Thanks for putting up with my crazy mood swings today. And thanks for letting me vent. It was nice to take my mind off the fact that I freaking cried after you kissed me.”

  She buries her face in her hand as if she’s ashamed, but she’s slightly laughing. When she comes up for air, our eyes meet, and without warning, my stomach knots and my mouth goes dry. Focused on her plump, rosy lips, it’s all I can do not to crush them with another kiss.

  I’ve been around the world.

  I’ve kissed a lot of girls in a lot of countries.

  Maybe I’ve broken a few hearts along the way.

  I’ve done a lot of things.

  I’ve jumped from helicopters. I’ve snuck into ancient pyramids after hours. I dove from cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean.

  But something tells me Daphne Rosewood is about to become my greatest adventure yet.

  “Daphne,” I say, my breath low in my throat.

  Angling herself to face me, her expression fades. “Yes?”

  I sit up, inching closer to her side, and swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m going to kiss you again. And I don’t want you to cry this time. I want you to feel it. I want you to enjoy it. Can you do that?”

  Her crystal eyes widen and she nods slowly, staring at me through long, curled lashes.

  My hand lifts, enveloping the side of her face as our mouths move closer. There’s an endless second that lingers between us, causing my heart to stop until our lips brush together. My fingers lace through the hair at the nape of her neck, guiding her mouth against mine.

  I kiss her soft at first. Slow. And then I gently take her lower lip between my teeth, releasing it before soothing the sting with another sweet kiss. Daphne reaches for me, the tips of her fingers grazing the flesh along my jaw, and the bed shifts as she scoots closer.

  She moans between kisses. It’s subtle. Barely audible. And I’m not sure she knows she’s doing it. But I fucking love it. I don’t want her to stop.

  Kissing her harder now, she moans into my mouth a little louder this time, and when she exhales, her breath is warm on my face and she pulls herself away to catch her breath.

  “God, I could let you kiss me like this all night,” she breathes, lips warm and swollen.

  My mouth crashes onto hers, stealing another kiss, and I feel her lips curve as she smiles. There’s a hard ball in the pit of my stomach, only it feels empty, and the more I kiss Daphne, the heavier it feels.

  It grounds me. It weighs me down. It fills me up.

  It tingles, as if it’s coming to life. It feels just as real as the heart galloping in my chest.

  I don’t know this woman, but I love kissing her.

  I love the way she needs me to kiss her.

  Daphne’s lips part, and our tongues meet in a beautiful, inevitable hesitation. Each quiver of her breath, each desperate, needy sigh, makes me want more of her . . .
makes me want all of her.

  If she were any other girl, I might have my way with her and not feel a thing. I’d feel every inch of her, inside and out, and my mouth would travel her body, reveling in her sweet taste and the way she responds to my touch. But there’s something different about this one. She’s fragile and broken and vulnerable, and at the same time she’s strong and hopeful. She’s an enigma, and she’s not like the rest.

  I’ll kiss her tonight.

  I’ll kiss her all night.

  But I won’t break her because she deserves better.

  I hardly know her, and already I know she deserves better than me.

  Chapter 6

  Daphne

  A sliver of sunlight peeks through the break in the hotel room curtains, but the rest of the room is so dark I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. My lips tingle, like they’re slightly numb, and I reach for them, sliding my fingertips along my swollen pout.

  He kissed me. He kissed me all night.

  The bed shifts, and my attention jerks to my left.

  Oh, god.

  He’s in bed with me.

  Squeezing my legs together and running my hand down my front, I softly exhale when I find myself still fully clothed in last night’s pajama-and-robe ensemble.

  Pressing my head into my pillow, I stare at the ceiling and steady my breathing. Bits and pieces of the night before come back to me.

  He saved me from hooking up with a married pilot.

  I yelled at him.

  I took a bath.

  He kissed me.

  I cried.

  He kissed me some more.

  We fell asleep in bed together.

  I’m not sure this is the kind of thing I had in mind when I made my priceless moments resolution, but this is definitely not the kind of experience money can buy, so I guess it counts.

  Glancing his way, my eyes trace the shadowed outline of his face. He wears a peaceful expression, his breath steady as he exhales.