“Don’t get me wrong,” he went on, leaning cockily back against the table and lifting one side of his mouth ruefully, “I absolutely think you’re a menace, and I fear for my safety every time you walk in the room. But it’s not true that I can’t stand you. Actually, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“About how much you want to throttle me? Or push me off the Spit Bridge?” she tried to joke.
He raised his head and met her eyes with a hot, hungry look. He swept his gaze down her body so slowly and so deliberately that she almost felt it like a physical touch. Her mouth went dry as his eyes returned to her face.
“No,” he said firmly, his meaning unmistakeable, and the word reverberated in her bones.
She scoffed. “That’s not liking me. That’s wanting to fuck me. And as I’ve already told you, I can’t do that. I can’t give you what you want.”Please don’t ask me to.Why was he making this so difficult?
Carly stood up from the back of the couch and walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, sucking down gulps of her ice coffee, then tossed the empty cup in the trash. She leaned against the cool granite counter and took a few breaths, knowing that she’d have to go back into the living room and face Nick again.
But before she could turn around, he came into the kitchen and approached her cautiously, like he thought she might bolt if he moved too quickly. He stepped toward her until the tips of his shoes met the front of her flip flops, and looked down into her face.
“I know we’ve both acted badly, what with the trolley ramming and the public dressing downs,” he said, and she stared down at their shoes as he spoke. “I’m sorry for my part in it. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Carly swallowed hard and looked up at him, feeling heat radiating from his chest. She wanted more than anything to pull him against her, bring that heat closer and let it mingle with her own, but she willed herself to stand straight. Still, she couldn’t stop the truth from tumbling out of her mouth.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, either. It’s very irritating, isn’t it?”
He chuckled, and she felt the low rumble in her toes and in every nerve ending.
“I wouldn’t say irritating, per se, but it’s very distracting.”
“Nick Jacobs, you’re a pedant,” she said with a smile.
“I’m not a pedant,” he said, not taking his eyes from her mouth. “I am precise.”
She rolled her eyes, and he responded by leaning forward slowly, so slowly, and putting one of his hands on the counter next to hers. A tiny movement, but one that took all the remaining air from her already breathless lungs. She turned away, giving him her back and regretting the decision immediately. There was no escape here, either. His body bracketed hers, and even though only their hands and feet were touching, she swore she could feel his pulse hammering along her spine. His long, graceful fingers were loose on hers, but she could feel the tension that pulsed in his arms and imagined it wrapping around her shoulders.
“Nick,” she said as firmly as she could manage, clinging desperately to the purpose of this conversation. “I can’t give you what you want.”
“I want whatever you have. Whatever you can give me,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. His breath flickered against her ear as he spoke. “Whatever we can do together. I want that. I wantallof that.”
He lifted a hand and swept his fingertips across the nape of her neck, pulling her hair away and exposing the skin to the cool morning air. Then he repeated the motion with his lips, sending hot sparks racing under her skin. She shuddered and arched her back, not wanting him to break contact, and he didn’t. He took a step closer and kept his mouth on her neck, hot and ravenous and raising goosebumps with every sweep of his tongue, and trailed his fingers lightly up her body from her hip to her waist and up the side of her breast. Desire gathered between her thighs, and she arched her back again, wanting as much of him pressed against her as possible. He obliged, and she felt the hard length of him against the base of her spine.
“Fuck,” she breathed, and she felt him smile against her skin.
“We don’t have to. I don’t want to if you don’t want to. So the question is, what do you want?”
She didn’t know how to answer, so she tipped her head back and tried to kiss him, but he stopped her. He put his hands on her waist and gently turned her around. Now the counter was the only thing hard against her back, but she looked into his appallingly handsome face and saw him gazing down at her with dilated eyes. She was breathing rapidly, but he seemed to be holding his breath.
“What do you want?”
She nodded, then grabbed a handful of his shirt and tried to pull him toward her, but he resisted, standing firm and letting her tug fruitlessly on the fabric.
“You’re going to have to say it,” he said, looking into her face and raising his eyebrows, challenging her. “With words.”
She glared up at him and pulled his shirt again. “Nick,” she pleaded, and she was annoyed, but not surprised, to hear the whining note in her own voice. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, and the want between her thighs had become an insistent, throbbing demand.
“I said words, plural. That was one word.”
“Pedant,” she growled, and he chuckled, low and throaty. A real laugh, not something sharp and grim, but loose and warm and just for her. The sound made her breath catch in her chest, and when he lowered his head and ran his hand up the side of her body again, she had to remind herself to exhale, then inhale.
“I’m not a pedant, I’m precise,” he said, his mouth half an inch from her ear. “And I want you to tell me precisely what you want from me.”
“No,” she said stubbornly, releasing his shirt. For a moment he froze, taken aback, but then she grinned wickedly up at him and stepped sideways and away from the counter. He wanted her to be in charge here?Fine then, I’ll be in charge, she thought, and she sauntered as casually as she could out of the living room and into the bedroom.You think I’m a brat? Fine then, I’ll be a brat.
She heard his footsteps follow her, and then stop. When she reached her bed, the sheets pushed down and the throw blanket tossed in a heap at the foot, she turned around to see him standing in the doorway, his hands pressed flat against the door frame. He seemed to be holding himself there, unwilling to enter the room.Fine, she thought again, meeting his gaze and refusing to break it.We’ll see how long that lasts.
