I shouldn't take it. Shouldn't accept anything from him.
But I was cold, and it looked soft, and some traitorous part of me wanted to be wrapped in his scent.
I pulled it on. The fabric swallowed me—sleeves past my fingertips, hem falling to mid-thigh. Cedar and smoke surrounded me, made my head spin.
"Better?" he asked.
I turned to face him. He was close now, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough to see the scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the stubble darkening his jaw, the way his pupils dilated slightly when he looked at me.
"I can't figure you out," he said quietly. "One minute you're kissing me, the next you're running. What are you afraid of?"
My heart hammered. "Maybe I don't know what I want."
"I think you know exactly what you want." His hand came up to trace my jawline. "You're just scared to take it."
Good question. One I couldn't answer without blowing everything.
I pushed up on my toes and kissed him.
He froze for half a second. Then his hands found my waist, pulled me against him, and kissed me back with an intensity that stole my breath.
This. This was what I needed. Physical. A way to get back on track with the plan.
Except nothing about kissing Gil Pruitt felt simple.
His mouth demanded, claimed, as though he'd been thinking about this since last night. I responded in kind, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to me. When his tongue swept against mine, a needy sound escaped my throat.
Part of the plan. Stay focused.
But my body wasn't listening. Arching against him, gasping when his hands slid under the borrowed sweater to find bare skin. His palms were rough and warm against my ribs, my back, exploring in a way that made my knees weak.
"The rug," I managed against his mouth. "By the fire."
He pulled back enough to look at me, his eyes dark and searching. "You sure about this?"
"Do I look unsure?"
"You look..." He traced my jawline with his thumb. "Determined. Which isn't the same thing."
God, why did he have to notice everything?
"Gil." I dragged his mouth back to mine. "Stop overthinking."
He kissed me again, harder this time, and started walking me backward toward the fireplace. Toward the thick rug in front of it.
When my legs hit the edge of the rug, he lowered us both down. The wool was soft and slightly scratchy against my back, warmed by the fire. He hovered over me, his weight supported on his forearms, steel-gray eyes locked on mine.
"I want you here with me," he murmured. "Not wherever you go in your head."
Then his mouth was on my throat, my collarbone, taking his time. We shed clothes in a tangle—my sweater, his shirt, my jeans taking longer because I had to arch up and shimmy while he helped by dragging them down my legs. His joggers disappeared. And then there was nothing between us except skin and heat and firelight and the sound of our breathing.
"Ruby." My name on his lips sounded like a prayer.
His mouth traveled down my body. Kissing, tasting, learning me. When he took his time with my breasts—tongue circling my nipples, teeth grazing—my back arched off the rug. The fire crackled beside us, throwing dancing shadows across our skin.
"Gil," I breathed.
"I want to taste every inch of you." His voice was rough. "Tell me to stop if you don't want this."
