Get out, idiot. Leave.
“I know you don’t want me here, but … I …”
Stone moved his gaze around, trying to find a safe spot to land. Her legs and knees took up most of his visual field, so he stared at his hand. Couldn’t help but notice how close it was to her thigh.
Stop stop stop.
“Do you hate me?”
The question was a sucker punch, especially when she asked in that broken whisper. “No.” It surprised him how much force barreled into that answer. He wanted to hate her, but he couldn’t. “I hate myself for …”
Everything.
Her fingers were on his beard, tracing it, touching.
Driving him mad.
“It’s softer than I’d expected,” she said quietly.
Now both hands teased his beard, sending charged volts of electricity into his gut, across his shoulders. Hollowing out his hearing and shutting down the part of his brain that said this was a bad idea.
He caught her wrists. “Don’t.”
“Please don’t hate yourself,” she whispered. “My time with you was a … gift. A haven. You were a refuge?—my refuge in a very terrible storm that had taken my life.”
Stone released her wrists. Grabbed the edges of the table again. But his thumb traced her jeans …
“I’ve never met a man like you.” Her words were but a sweet fragrance across his face as she leaned in closer. Too close. It was familiar?—this was familiar. She was familiar and warm. Sweet. Beautiful.
Her lips were there, offering themselves. As they always had. Less than a half inch to bridge the gap. All he had to do was take that kiss. And all his demons wanted it. Wanted her. They were right together, good together.
This is wrong.
“Tizzy …” He cursed himself for using that name. Groaned, hating how much he wanted to again taste her sweetness. Fall into that sweet spot. But he had to be strong. Didn’t want her to think that he?—
She stole the kiss he withheld.
Stone let her, savoring the softness of her kiss. Promised himself just one. Sweet mercies and relief rushed through him so strong he told himself not to move. Not to kiss her back or respond.
But she took another. This one more eager than the previous, one that tested his resolve.
Okay, enough. Step off, Metcalfe. Breathe.
But the kiss and her warm breath lingered over his mouth. Pleading, or maybe she was trying just as much to tame this. He cupped her face to hold her there, keep this from getting out of control. But the teasing way her lips danced on his was enough to break his slipping control. Tempted him to take a kiss of his own.
It was just a small kiss. Him, too aware of her uneven breathing. Just one. That’s all. Couldn’t hurt.
Until she released a soft moan and pressed in.
Restraint fled. Stone caught her mouth with his, remembered how they were together. How right she felt in his arms.
Her curves curled into him, hand sliding up over his back, inviting him deeper into the kiss, which he greedily accepted. Appreciated how she fit against him. The way her fingers dug into his hair.
Crap. Stand down, Metcalfe. Stinging awareness hit like liquid nitrogen, shocking cold sanity through his passion-drenched skull??—she’d been trafficked. Used and abused.
This … taking what she offered … was what every other man had done.
Repulsed with himself, Stone gently caught her wrists again and unwound her arms from his neck and shoulders. Broke off the kiss. Swallowed around his jackhammering pulse.
