The sadness swept in again. He reached out and caught her wrist, then covered her hand with his other. There was so much he wanted to say, to erase and redo, but he couldn’t do anything but stare into her eyes and wish for a do-over.
He wished that Twist hadn’t died, that he could have fucking been there for Laine, that he didn’t feel this immense guilt at every kinky thought of Laine running through his head.
Laine’s expression softened, and the light in her face dimmed. “Earlier, you said you wished you’d handled Christmas differently. What did you mean?”
Her palm was so slim and small in his hand. There was no way the cushion separating them would do enough to help him keep his distance.
“You also said you didn’t regret it,” she added pointedly.
Roarke shuffled closer. “That’s true.”
“What would you do instead?” Her voice dropped low, almost sultry.
Goddamn if his cock didn’t stir.
She raised her eyebrows, waiting.
How could he tell her that her raspy little voice had stayed in his head for years? She’d said she wanted him, wanted tofeel something, and then he’d pulled away—that shit ate at him every day.
A million times he’d played over in his mind how he could have handled it better. He could have stripped her naked, claimed her mouth, her pussy, and everything in between. Now, he had a second shot and that same fear stirred in his belly.
She must have sensed his hesitation because she pulled her hand away. “Never mind. I think I’ll head to bed early.”
Fuck. He couldn’t screw this up again. Whateverthiswas. After last time, he hadn’t seen her for six years. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen again.
She stood. “Tomorrow will be?—”
He got to his feet, and she blinked in surprise. He circled his arms around her waist, pulling her chest to his front. Her deep-green eyes held more emotions than he could name. Worry, hope ... desire.
“I screwed up, Lainie. I shouldn’t have stopped kissing you. I let Twist’s death get in my head. I won’t do that again.”
She pressed her hand to his face, her skin so soft he couldn’t help but turn his head to kiss her palm, needing her to know he meant it. That he wouldn’t run away again.
Tears flooded her eyes. “Ollie loved you. Hell,” she said, on a choked laugh, “he idolized you.”
Roarke pressed his forehead to hers, relief finally seeping into his muscles. Christ, it felt right to hold her. To bare his heart. In the years before Twist’s death, whenever he was around Laine, he’d felt this same pull.
Attraction that lit his core and sent flames over his skin. He’d never acted on it, never given it a second of attention because he couldn’t imagine Twist ever being okay with Laine and him together.
What does being together even mean?
He had no right to walk into Laine and Emmy’s life. To pretend to be a father figure when he didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a child. Not to mention be a husband to Laine when he spent most of the year in the Middle East dodging bullets and killing people.
This wasn’t his turf. He had no stake in her perfect little family.
“I know things are different now. You have this wild, dangerous career,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I don’t know what this chemistry is that we have, but I know there’s respect there. That we care for each other.”
He threaded his fingers through the silky strands of her hair. “Damn right I care for you. I’ll never hurt you, Lainie. I promise.”
Her hand swept down to cup his neck, and need sparked across her face. “Good. Then fucking kiss me.”
He joined his thumbs under her chin, cradling her jaw as he brought his mouth to her perfect, bow-shaped lips. The feel of her flesh sent a shockwave through his core. Heat radiated up and down his thighs.
She moaned, melting into him. One slim leg slipped between his knees, and he groaned. Jesus, he needed this. Needed her.
He pressed his tongue between her teeth, and she gave a minuscule gasp from the back of her throat. The warm cavern of her mouth teased his senses. He wanted more. Every inch. Every taste.
Goddammit.
