"I want."
The words were rough, almost guttural, and they sent a shiver down her spine.
"I want, Edie. That's the problem. I want so much it terrifies me. I want you in my space, in my bed, in my life. I want your chaos and your coffee mugs and your goddamn glitter. I want to wake up with you and fall asleep with you and I want—" His breath shuddered. "I want you to stay. Not for a week or a month or until the mural is finished. I want you to stay."
She turned.
He was right there, close enough to touch, his dark eyes blazing with everything he usually kept hidden. Pain and longing and fear and something else, something deeper, something that looked dangerously like?—
"Then why didn't you say so?"
"Because I was scared."
The admission seemed to cost him something. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see a muscle jumping beneath the skin, and his hands—those massive, capable hands—were trembling.
"Scared of what?"
"That you'd say no. That you'd look at me with pity. That I'd finally find the words and you'd tell me you didn't feel the same, and then I'd have to live with that." He swallowed hard. "It was easier to say nothing. To let you go and pretend I was fine. To suffer in silence instead of risking?—"
"I thought you didn't care."
"What?"
"You were so calm when I packed. You helped me carry boxes. You stood there and said nothing, and I thought—" Her voice broke. "I thought I'd made the whole thing up. That what we had was just—convenience. Proximity. A way to pass time until the mural was done."
"Edie." He moved closer, crowding her against the desk, his hands coming up to cradle her face with devastating gentleness. "I have never in my life felt anything less convenient than what I feel for you. You destroyed my routines. Wrecked my concentration. Made me want things I'd convinced myself I didn't need. And I let you walk away because I was too much of a coward to tell you the truth."
"The truth?"
His thumbs traced her cheekbones, wiping away tears she hadn't realized were falling.
"That I love you."
The words hit her like a physical force. She gasped, her hands coming up to grip his wrists, holding on like he might disappear.
"Tarmek—"
"You don't have to say it back. I know this is—I know I'm not easy. I'm rigid and controlling and I communicate like a brick wall. But I need you to know. I need you to understand that when I said the camper was ready, I meant—" He closed his eyes, struggling for words. "I meant I would support whatever made you happy, even if it killed me. I meant I wanted you to have options. I meant?—"
She kissed him.
It was the only way to make him stop talking, to stop the flow of self-deprecating confessions that were breaking her heart. She surged up on her toes, gripped the lapels of his suit, and pressed her mouth to his with all the desperation and longing that had been building since the moment she'd walked out his door.
He groaned.
The sound rumbled through her, vibrating against her lips, and then his arms were around her—lifting her, crushing her against his chest, kissing her back with a ferocity that stole her breath.
This wasn't the controlled passion of their earlier encounters. This was raw. Primal. The dam breaking after days of pressure.
He set her on the edge of the desk, scattering paperwork, and stepped between her thighs without breaking the kiss. His hands were everywhere—in her hair, down her back, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Edie." Her name was a prayer and a curse. "I can't—I need?—"
"Yes." She didn't care what he was asking. The answer was yes. Yes to everything. Yes to him. Yes to whatever came next.
His mouth moved to her throat, and she tilted her head back with a moan. His teeth scraped over her pulse point, not quite biting, and her whole body arched into him.
"Not here." The words seemed to cost him physical effort. "I want—need—a bed. Need to do this properly."
