“Admit that you feel the pull between us,” he said.
She shook her head in a jittery type of way.
“You don’t feel it at all?” he asked, incredulous.
“No.” The lie caught in her throat, and she couldn’t say any more.
She was mesmerized by his face, undone by her biology. The next thing she knew, without planning it or sanctioning it, she was pressing her lips against his and locking her arms around his neck.
He responded instantly, his hands coming to her lower back and drawing her body against his. He made a guttural sound of masculine pleasure as he kissed her.
All at once, nothing in the world mattered more than this. No concerns had the power to stop her from grabbing this scrap of pleasure.
The contact between them was raw . . . then tender . . . then needy. It was like being inside a snow globe of wonder—just the two of them exploring their magnificent chemistry. An interaction of bodies and souls.
He pulled back a tiny distance. Both their chests were heaving as he briefly looked into her eyes. Then he returned, funneling his tremendous will into their kiss. It was as if she was the center of his universe, his sole focus.
He was all experience and confidence, by far the best kisser she’d ever—
A wicked shard of memory intruded. Another man’s hands pressing onto her head and neck. Another man’s mouth and tongue pushing into her—
She wrenched away and fell back, catching herself with her arms against the carpet. Looking to the side, she pressed the back of one wrist against her lips.
“Remy?” he asked, concerned. “You okay?”
Parting from him that way had been involuntary, stunning her slightly.
Her brain fought to function while submerging in the quicksand of fear.What . . . What am I doing? Kissing Jeremiah?
He was reaching down, offering her a hand up.
This was crazy! So stupid!
Ignoring his hand, she scrambled to her feet. She strode toward the back of the house as if chased by demons. Made it through the sliding door, then she was walking blindly into the night with some vague idea of needing more oxygen than she’d had in there where the strength of Jeremiah’s presence thinned the atmosphere.
A panic attack was thundering toward her like a runaway train. She’d learned techniques for this. She could head it off. Maybe.
She halted near a fire table circled by chairs and focused her whirling thoughts on the details of the nearest chair. Adirondack. Brazilian walnut. Warm, rich color tone.
She counted as she inhaled,one two three four five, retained the breath for a few seconds, counted as she exhaled. Concentrating, she relaxed her muscles and made herself breathe deeper.
She knew Jeremiah had followed and was standing nearby. But he seemed to understand the silent message she was sending not to speak and not to touch her.
She hovered on the edge of a panic attack for a few agonizing minutes. Then spent a few more minutes recovering and gathering courage to face him.
At last, she straightened.
He looked stricken, pale. “Someone hurt you,” he said quietly. “Didn’t they, Remy?”
All of a sudden, she wanted to cry. To scream. To shake her fists at the heavens.
She did none of those things. Said nothing.
His hands dangled at his sides. “Please tell me.”
Should she tell him? She typically discussed it only with her inner circle. People she'd known longer than she'd known Jeremiah.
Yet staying silent was what an ashamed person would do, and she had no reason to feel ashamed. Even so, shame always,alwaystried to score her with its talons. She loathed shame.
