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Holding his gaze, I lift it from the table and slowly move it over the coaster. For one beautiful second, hope actually enters his face. His shoulders ease a fraction. Aww, such a trusting thing.

At the last possible second, I choose violence, shift my hand two inches to the right, and set the glass directly on the wood.

The room goes quiet, except for the crackle of the fireplace and a questioning chirp from one of the cats. Gage stares at the glass. Then, he lifts his eyes very slowly to mine; I smile at him over my still-sticky laptop.

“Pick it up.” His voice roughens, and a thrill skitters up my spine.

“Why?”

“My house, my rules.”

I flash him a grin. “You like me bending the rules. It’s fun. Admit it.”

He folds his arms, and the motion pulls his black T-shirt tight across his shoulders while every tattoo seems to flex in collective outrage. Even the Julia Child quote seems judgmental. It should be illegal for a man to be that hot while lecturing me about beverage placement.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

I press a hand innocently to my chest. “Doing what?”

Oh. If looks could kill—and if laughter had ever threatened a felony. “Princess.” That tone goes straight through me. And right down between my thighs.

Marzipan, bored or annoyed, abandons the couch. Probably for the best. I suspect this is about to get ugly.

I pick up the cream puff and take another slow bite, and his gaze falls immediately to my mouth. Ha. Success. I’ve been chasing that primal energy for days. The clenched jaw. The heat darkening those hooded eyes. A rougher energy he’s been holding back beneath all that infuriating self-control.

A few crumbs tumble onto my shirt. I brush them away. Gage’s left eye twitches again.

I swallow and smile. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely.” His voice is far too calm now.

He starts toward me. I set the cream puff down, slide the laptop farther down my thighs, and stretch my arms so he can see my bare stomach obviously. His eyes follow, then jerk away; the control freak knew I was watching.

Instead of touching me, he surveys the disaster. Then, one by one, he sets each glass on a coaster, perfectly aligned, while the remaining eight squares wait like reinforcements.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Feel better?”

“No.”

“Maybe you really do need that lobotomy.” I poke his side. He stiffens, veins throbbing. I discovered his tickle spot six days ago, and I’ve been walking the tightrope of certain doom ever since.

“Maybe.”

Come fucking on, Gage! Preferably on me, I silently beg.

He brushes the crumbs onto the paper towel, jaw working, visibly reconsidering every decision that led him to bring me here.

“You know,” I say, settling deeper into the couch, “for someone who spends his free time chopping wood and body building, you’re remarkably fragile about furniture.”

His dark expression sends a hot pulse in my pussy. “What?” I tuck one leg beneath me. “Sure you don’t want to say something?”

“Oh,” he huffs, “I have several things I would like to say.”

“Use your words, Loose Cannon.”