“How much of New Year’s do you remember?”
I grimace. “Not much. I’d had a lot to drink.”
“So had I, and I still remember it.”
“Well excuse me, Mr. Perfect Memory.” I make a face.
His eyes track over me for another moment, then he exhales. “I guess it’s not fair to be mad at you if you don’t remember.”
“What… happened?”
“You said something…” He lets his gaze slide from mine. “Something I really wanted to hear.”
My heart jumps. What doesthatmean?
“Then why were you angry?”
“Because the next day you texted me and told me to forget it.”
“Oh.” I want to ask him what I said, but honestly? I’m terrified of the answer. Instead, I take a breath to ask something else I desperately want to know—something that’s been eating away at me since yesterday. “Michael, why, um… why didn’t we sleep together?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “You don’t remember that, either?”
“No,” I mumble. “I just thought, you know, we were kissing, and… did I stop it?”
“No, Alex.” There’s a flash of amusement in his eyes. “You didnotstop it. I did.”
“But… you said you wanted to kiss me. So why stop it?”
“Because we were drunk! I didn’t want it—us—to be that; drunk sex on New Year’s.”
“Oh,” I murmur. He was being a gentleman, not taking advantage of what I, apparently, was eagerly offering. “That’s… that’s really sweet.”
His eyes linger on my face and his mouth softens into a smile. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
I smile too, relieved to see him coming around. “It sounds like I wasn’t that nice to you on New Year’s Eve. Sorry I can’t remember.”
There’s a twitch in his cheek. “I never said you weren’t nice.”
Right, that’s it. I have to know.
“Are you going to tell me what I said?”
He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, playfulness lighting his eyes, and shakes his head.
“Come on!”
“Nope.” His gaze remains locked on mine as a slow smile spreads across his face, and desire ignites in my bones. God, that’s all it takes—one provocative smile from him and I start to unravel.
With a low chuckle he pushes to his feet, raising his arms above his head to stretch. His sweater lifts, exposing half his abdomen, and my eyes fix on the bare skin. There’s a trail of dark hair from his navel down to the top of his belt buckle—a path to his treasure. My fingertips tingle with the need to touch it, to follow and see where it leads. And when he catches me shamelessly feasting on him, his eyes spark with a hunger of his own.
Holy fuck.
Heat rockets through me, settling in an ache between my thighs. Suddenly I’m gasping for breath and I have to look away or I don’t know what I’ll do. No wonder I was behaving so inappropriately on New Year’s Eve after a boatload of booze. I’m barely holding it together now, stone-cold sober.
I need to get away from him. Fast.
“Right.” I dig deep into my reserves of self-restraint as I rise from the chair, knowing there’s only one way to get this out of my system. “I’ll be in my room, writing.”
