“Dates,” I whisper, the movement making my lips graze hers. “Dates?” “Yes.” “You want ten dates?” “Yes.” I pull back a little enough to look into her eyes and try to read her reaction. Then some more, so I can pull her gold-clad wrist to my mouth and rest my lips against her pulse. “Ask me why.” “Why do you want ten dates?” Replacing my lips with the pad of my thumb so I can feel the moment her heart starts to race because of my words, I gaze up at her. “Because I want one for every year we lost. One for every birthday you spent without me. One for every anniversary we didn’t get to celebrate.
