The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

Not sophisticated and debonair. Not carefully groomed, properly put-together from head to toe.

Not like this.

Not…devastating. Not the way he looks when he enters the theater room right now.

The tuxedo on his broad shoulders fits him like a second skin, draping delicately over every muscle. Under the dim lights of the open floor, the black material of the suit hides the many intricate tattoos that I know lie beneath, and the dichotomy of it, the sheer contrast—that smooth exterior hiding the rough man underneath all those tailored layers is more than I can bear.

I don’t even get to drink my Cabernet because the second I reach out to grab my drink from the bartender his fingers, long and large, clamp down easily over mine.

Andrew takes the dark red drink from the barkeep, slipping him a twenty, and before I can protest, he slides it out reach, letting the burgundy elixir slosh out of the glass and across the bar as he watches me, his blue eyes alight with latent heat.

I fight the urge to look away. Stomach tightening, skin tingling, I stand in his shadow, my chin lifted just enough to glance at his perfectly stubbled face.

I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue.

“Could you be any more rude?” I hurl at him softly.

“I think you know the answer to that question.”

“You stole my drink.”

He lowers the glass. “No, I paid for the drink. There’s a difference.”

“A subtle difference,” I comment. “Like the difference between asshole and prick.”

“Are you calling me an asshole?”

“No, I’m explaining the difference. But you can take your pick for which one suits you better. In my opinion?” I lean closer with a smile. “They both fit just fine.”

Andrew glares, his full lips pressing into a hard line. His pale blue eyes flare in my direction. “You shouldn’t be drinking while you’re this emotional. Not now. Not after…everything. Trust me: It won’t help.”

I exhale soundly on a scoff. “I could say the same for you. I thought you were thinking about quitting.”

“I did.” He stares. “I don't intend to drink your wine.”

"No, just steal it, I see. I don't need you clocking my choices. Or watching me. Or following me to places. I’m a big girl, Andrew.”

“All evidence to the contrary.”

My stare slants. “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I can do nothing but watch as Andrew angles closer, his large chest nearly pressing to mine. I take a step back. Grabbing my elbow, he grips me closer, tugging me towards him.

The sudden move puts a small knot in my throat, and I struggle to swallow around it as he nears, his lips near my ear, his soft smoky scent invading my senses and sending a spark to the apex of my legs.

I suppress a shiver.

“What it means,” he whispers, his body near mine, “is that you’re not being honest with yourself. Not about your dad’s death. Not about what you’re going through. Not about the help you need. And definitely not about you and me. Because I know you, Nancy. Even if you think I don’t. I know exactly how you think. I knew you would come here. Because you once mentioned on a random Friday night how you used to come here with your dad when you were sad about your mom's passing because the theaters were so dark and loud that it would let you cry in peace…not the like schoolyard where everybody could watch and make fun of you.”

He pauses. “I knew you would order popcorn because your appetite is as focused on the salty as much as mine is on the sweet.”

He moves even closer. “And more importantly, I know how you operate. How you laugh. How you live. How you have fun on that rare occasion when you let yourself. The way you move.”

His voice dips even lower. “I know what it means when you twirl the wisps of hair at your ear around your forefinger and I know that when you’re angry like this, it’s because you’re fighting something. And usually that something is fear. But today? It’s something different.”

He brushes his thumb along my neck, and my knees fight to keep me upright. His hard chest brushes against mine.

“Today? You’re fighting how you feel. How much you want to be with me…even when you hate me. I know you do…because I’m fighting the same thing too. I’m fighting the idea of bending of you over this bar and spreading your legs. I’m fighting the idea of touching you between your soft thighs and making you beg. Of making you admit that I can and will be the man you yearn for and need because contrary to what you want to believe, Nancy… You? Me? What's happening to both of us is real, and it’s not going away.”

The tip of his bottom lip brushes my ear, and my legs quiver with need. My entire body vibrates as Andrew hovers over me, so close and yet not enough. With his body barely skimming mine, he pushes me to the brink, his deep voice but a whisper that welcomes a warm throb, a steady pulse along my pussy.

And he’s barely touched me.

My conscience screams, shrieking somewhere in protest. But my body betrays me, and I do nothing, say nothing, as Andrew nails the final point home.

“It’s not going away, Nancy. And I’m not going away, either. Not unless you explicitly tell me to. Until then I’m not going to do a damn thing but tell you how sorry I am for lying to you and spending every day of my life making it up to you. And after I do, then I want you to tell me the truth. That you want to love me as absolutely senseless as I love you.”

He steps back, giving me a full view of his body—perfect from head to toe. “And I’m not going to stop until you do.” He lingers a beat before spreading his tuxedo-covered arms wide, his chiseled