“You want me to keep thinking about you,” I press. “Towantyou.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he growls, frustration slipping through.
Good.Emotions are sexual lubricant, and with him standing there with his shirt off and telling me we’re alone right now, my head is firmly in the gutter. If he’s trying to be a tease, to get me back for that drunken night when I wouldn’t let him hit it, it’s working.
“Do you think about me?” I demand.
“Of course I do. How can I not? You’re every-fucking-where I turn.”
Nice try.
“No. It’s more than that.” I climb the porch steps and stand in front of him. “That first night, in your bed ...” My voice drops to a whisper. “You wanted me.”
“Yes.” His voice is gravelly. “I did.”
“But that’s changed now?”
“It never changed,” he says gruffly.
Then he grabs me, his hands sliding into my hair as he pulls me to him, and healmostkisses me.
I suck in a breath.
His mouth hovers over mine for one breath, two. Testing.Do I want this?
Will I tell him to stop?
“Don’t stop,” I breathe.
His mouth slams down on mine. Hot. Hungry.
No, ravenous.
His lips are soft, his beard is silky-rough, his tongue is greedy for mine, and I love it all.
I kiss him back with all the pent-up hunger I feel.
He pulls me into the house, slams the door behind us, and presses me up against it.
“This is ... just sex,” I gasp between kisses, panic spiking at the back of my mind. Vulnerability. His kisses feel way too good. “Right?”
He pauses, breathing heavily and studying my face. Maybe wondering if I meant it, when I accused him of using women for sex. “If that’s what you want.”
But of course that’s what I want.
“I’m leaving,” I pant. “At the end of the month or in a few months. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my home.”
Heisn’t my home.
He’s just a hot, delicious man I don’t want to deny myself the pleasure of getting naked with for one more second.
“I know,” he says.
“Great.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah.”
