Page 47

“I’m not thirsty,” I tell him.

He tips his head to the side, a soft smile playing at his lips. “Then what are you?” he murmurs.

Hungry. Starving. Needy. All those things that are making every cell in my body feel buzzed despite the lack of alcohol.

“Will you take me on a tour of your house,” I say, instead of answering his question.

“There’s not much to see. A little living room, the piano. Then a bedroom and bathroom upstairs.”

“I know.” I smile and he smiles back, finally getting it.

His gaze dips to my body and up again, like he’s waiting.

“Show me anyway,” I tell him.

And that’s all he needs to hear, apparently.

His hand comes to my waist, his grasp almost possessive as he guides me out of the kitchen and down the narrow hallway. To our left, a piano dominates the sitting room, silent and dark. How many times has he sat there alone, playing to empty walls?

Well he isn’t alone now. That makes me smile.

Before I even make it up one step, he’s turning me around, his hands guiding my hips until the height of the step I’m standing on brings us face to face.

“This is what it’s like to be tall,” I say, because our faces are at the same height for once.

He smiles again, sliding his hands into my hair. He drops his brow against mine, like he’s savoring this. Then he moves his mouth against my cheek, my jaw, the tip of my nose, kissing me slowly, languorously, like I’m as fine as the wine I probably just turned down.

But I need more. The ache in me feels like an itch I’m not sure can ever be scratched. I wrap my arms around his back and slide my hands under his shirt, feeling the smooth heat of his skin. He grunts into my mouth, trailing his rough fingers under my sweater, up my sides, then he traces the line of my bra.

His fingers pause there, at the edge of lace and skin, like he’s giving me time to stop him.

But I don’t. I’m not sure I ever could.

I arch into his touch instead, my breath catching as his thumb traces the curve slowly, deliberately, like he’s learning me through fabric. His kiss deepens. We’re not frantic now. It feels more focused, like the prelude to a beautiful song.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs against my mouth, as his thumb grazes the swell of my breast.

“More than okay,” I whisper back. “Please don’t stop.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes. His hand slides higher, cupping me fully, his palm warm and firm as his thumb brushes over the sensitive peak through my bra. The contact sends a sharp pulse straight through me, my knees softening.

He feels my response. Of course he does, I’m gasping here.

His other hand drops to my thigh, pulling my leg around his hip so I’m open to him, pressed against him, aware of exactly how much he wants this too. The friction makes him groan low in his throat, a sound that shoots straight through my core.

“Oh god,” I say, because seriously, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this turned on.

He kisses my neck and it makes me gasp again. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Ignore me. It’s just been a while.”

He looks at me through his thick lashes. “Ditto.”

I like that more than I can say. I bring my hands between us, trying to unfasten his shirt, as our kisses turn frenzied, but my fingers are shaking too much and he has to help me.

Then he takes it off and I have to force myself to breathe.

Underneath that expensive cotton shirt and expertly knotted tie the man has been hiding this? A perfectly sculpted chest. Not too muscly, but just right. A shadow of hair gathers at the top of his pecs, and another faint line disappears beneath his waistband. I stare a second too long, taking him in, and my mouth actually goes dry.