Free The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) by R.C. Martin Page B

I think you ’ re right. ” Another moment of silence passes between us, this one more awkward than the last. “ Look, babe, I know that I —”
    “ Stop, ” I insist, placing my fingers over his lips. I know what he ’ s going to say — at least, I know what he ’ s going to bring up. I don ’ t want to hear it. I don ’ t need to hear it. The fact that he ’ s willing to broach the topic at all confirms that I don ’ t have any reason to doubt him. “ We don ’ t have to talk about it, love. I ’ m okay. I promise. I trust you and I trust our love and … we don ’ t have to talk about it. ”
    He doesn ’ t fight me. Instead, I watch the features of his face change. He furrows his brow and he fixes me with a stare and I can ’ t tell if he ’ s confused or trying to hold back what I assure him we don ’ t need to discuss. Either way, I pull my fingers from his lips and run them across his brow as if to smooth away the creases. They don ’ t go away, but they no longer worry me when he tells me that he loves me.
    “ I love you —”
    Before I finish speaking, his glasses are off and his lips are pressed against mine. For a second, I forget to breathe. My heart beats faster with excitement. It makes me so happy that he can still surprise me the way that he does and illicit this yearning to be consumed by him.
    He pries my mouth open with his tongue and I ’ m lost. He pulls me closer and I hold him tighter. This kiss, his touch, it ’ s dangerously passionate, but I don ’ t want him to stop. And he doesn ’ t. I bask in the electricity that seems to be building between us. As our intimate moment continues, I feel this desire to be even closer to him — to feel his skin and to have him feel mine. As if he ’ s inside of my head, my wish is granted and his fingertips find their way under my shirt and his hands splay across my back. His touch is warm and I need to be closer to him still. My own hands find their way under his clothing and my fingers trail their way up his sides. He ’ s so warm — and I need to be closer still.
    We should stop. I know we should stop — but I can ’ t. I just can ’ t. So I don ’ t. Neither does he. Thank God — neither does he. I lose track of time as he kisses me desperately — his hands everywhere, my hands everywhere — and then suddenly he pushes me away. We stare at each other, breathless, and I know he ’ s reached his tipping point. We don ’ t speak. Words aren ’ t necessary. Instead, we catch our breath, we remove our hands from underneath each others clothing, and we simply stare at one another. I marvel at his blue eyes, unobscured by his glasses — a sight I so rarely see, except in blissful moments like these.
    When we ’ ve both managed to gain control of our breathing, he tentatively grabs hold of my face and draws me close to him again. His lips find mine, but this kiss is different. It ’ s tender and sweet and full of love. Then, suddenly, I understand. I didn ’ t want to talk about marriage, about our future. I told him we didn ’ t need to, but he needed to. This is our conversation.
     

 
     
     

    Since my first final isn ’ t until Tuesday, my parents convince me to stay another night at home. It was hard to argue when my dad insisted that he missed the sound of my cello. He practically begged me to work on my recital piece well into Sunday night. I intended on putting in the practice time anyway. Plus, Addison was able to catch a ride back to Fort Collins with Hammy, and my mom promised Tex-Mex for dinner, so I really couldn ’ t say no.
    When Monday morning rolls around, I sleep in. I vaguely remember my parents both popping in to kiss me goodbye before they head to work, but I don ’ t get out of bed until nine — pure bliss. I shower, make myself some breakfast, and pack my car, happy to hit the road knowing that all of the morning ’ s rush hour traffic should be gone. The two hour journey passes with the