“That sound you make,” I rasped, raising my knee to give her more pressure. “It fucking kills me.”
“Mitchell—” she breathed, as if searching for an anchor; a foothold.
A reason.
I tipped my head down, inhaling the scent of my shampoo and soap all over her. The feeling of her hot breath on my lips was fucking torture. I knew, if I kissed her, it was all fucking over.
But in that moment, I didn’t give a fuck about anything else. I leaned down, our lips a hairsbreadth apart.
And an electronic chime sounded, obnoxiously loud.
“Fuck,” I breathed.
Winona pulled away from me, the melted look of her sharpening back into something solid.
Something horrified.
The dryer. Her clothes.
The only reason she was staying.
She backed away, all the color drained from her face.
“Hey, Winona,” I said. My voice was low. Calm. “I didn’t mean?—”
But she just shook her head.
I nodded. “Let me get those.”
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m fine.” She strode past me, into the laundry room, then upstairs with her clothes, leaving me gripping the counter behind me.
I dropped my head.Way to fucking go, asshole.
CHAPTER 14
Peeping Tina
WINONA
Ididn’t remember the walk from the laundry room back to the bedroom upstairs. I just found myself there, dropping my still-warm clothes on the bedspread.
But I didn't want to be anywhere near his bed.
I need to get dressed and get the hell out of here.
I scooped the clothes up again, heading for a chair on the opposite side of the room, next to the massive window looking out over the pool. “Anita,” I said sharply. “Lights off.”
The room dropped into darkness. I let out a breath. Then I pulled off his t-shirt, flinging it away from me as ifitwere the problem.
What the hell had just happened?
I thought of the way he’d held onto me. How his breath had felt in my ear. I’d just gone right along with it, like a hapless baby animal. No, like a desperate, sex-starved loser. I’d practically humped his leg.
So stupid, Winona. You know better.
It made no sense why I wanted to crawl up inside that man. I despised wealthy men. I despised assholes. Yet I wanted, with primal urgency a moment ago, to have MitchellHarrington pin me down with those broad hands. To have him finish what he started: kiss me until I couldn’t breathe. To turn me around and press my upper half down on the counter while he pulled the string on these pants…
But I couldn’t let the tiny cracks in his facade I saw tonight fool me. Mitchell Harrington was a privileged jerk. He absolutely needed therapy. Or maybe he just needed to abandon that book, which seemed to be making him delirious. Probably both. Definitely both.
