She left her hands submerged in the water. It was either that or end up groping him. “I figured you were feeling stressed.”
“I’m still feeling stressed.” He hesitated, then squeezed her shoulder gently. “But this helped. You’re a good friend, Delilah.”
His words were like a cold dose of reality. A reality she didn’t want to face. A reality she didn’t have to face if the ignorant man would just give in to the attraction that had been simmering between them for weeks, months, freaking years.
Removing her hands from the water, she turned to face him. His hand dropped away from her shoulder, his expression one of open shock. She went on pure instinct, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt, her wet fingers curling into the thin cotton, drenching it completely.
“I’m more than a friend and you know it.” Her voice was surprisingly firm.
He said nothing, his gaze dropping to her mouth, lingering there. She parted her lips, a shocked noise escaping her when he bent his head and his mouth hovered above hers for the briefest, most tantalizing second of her entire life.
“You’d like it if I kissed you, wouldn’t you?” His voice was a harsh whisper, his lips nearly moving against hers as he spoke.
A squeak wheezed out of her, and she tried to suck in a mouthful of air but it was no use. He’d claimed all the oxygen with his nearness, with his words, with the tease of his mouth so damn close to hers. She tightened her hold on his shirt, tugging on him, frustration rendering her mute.
“You know how long I’ve thought about this?” He slipped an arm around her waist, hauling her into him, and she swore he groaned low in his throat when their bodies made full contact. “Dreamed about it? Every time we’re together, it’s all I can think about. Kissing you. Touching you.”
Oh. My. She couldn’t believe what he was saying. Was it the beer? He’d had two plus the glass of wine. Well, tipsy Lane or sober Lane, whoever he was, as long as he was touching her, she wasn’t protesting.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he muttered, his arm loosening around her waist as he started to pull away from her. She reached for the back of his neck, her fingers curling in the hair at his nape, trapping him. He struggled but not too hard and his eyes blazed as he stared down at her. “You don’t want to start with me.”
“Why?” The word rasped from her throat, her voice full of all the bewilderment and confusion coursing through her veins. “Aren’t you tired of fighting it? We’ve been working toward this moment for a long time.”
“I’m not the right man for you,” he said through tight lips.
She barely restrained the urge to roll her eyes at his statement. How many times had she heard a similar response from him? Always protesting, always claiming he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t right for her, that the two of them together would cause each other nothing but heartache and trouble.
“Let me be the judge of that,” she said as she pressed on the back of his neck, her nails lightly scraping his warm, smooth skin. He drew closer, as if he couldn’t help himself, and triumph rang through her, setting off a vibration deep in her bones. “I’m a big girl, Lane,” she whispered as his mouth once again h
overed above hers. “I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be,” he muttered.
Just before he kissed her.
SHE WAS WARM. And soft. Oh, and wet.
Her hands, at least. Yeah, they’d soaked the front of his T-shirt and there were trickles of water running down his back when she gripped his nape.
He’d tried to fight it, tried to resist because damn it, he shouldn’t kiss her. He absolutely should not kiss her, not even once, just to try her out, but . . .
He did. Ah, Christ, he fucking did, and her lips were so plump and damp and soft, and she tasted so incredibly good. He let her take over the kiss, curious to see how far she would take it, and so far she’d kept it simple. Too simple. No tongue, just deliciously slow kisses where their mouths clung and their breaths mingled and their answering sighs were barely audible.
Delilah was kissing him. He couldn’t believe it. Delilah. The woman of his dreams. The woman who’d haunted him for years. Who’d teased him and tortured him and drove him out of his fucking mind with lust. Kissing him like she was a young innocent girl embarking on her first real encounter with the opposite sex, full of hesitation and seemingly unsure.
He clenched his hands into fists, preventing him from doing what he really wanted: gathering her skirt in his fingers so he could pull it up, exposing her ass and giving himself a chance to check out what color panties she might be wearing. And the style. A thong maybe? He would be so lucky to catch a glimpse of her perfect little ass naked, with a thin gossamer string between her cheeks . . .
His cock twitched at the thought, and he groaned against her lips, his mouth opening wider as he encouraged her to do the same. She gave in easily. Beautifully. She parted her lips on an inhalation, and he took advantage, thrusting his tongue inside, searching her mouth, curling it around hers. It was her turn to moan, and the sound was like a jolt of electricity sparkling through his veins. He gave in to his urges and unclenched his fingers, gathering up that wispy thin skirt, lifting it high, higher, the fabric crumpling in his fingers until he heard her gasp when he knew the cool air had hit her backside.
Oh, he was treading on dangerous territory here, but fuck it. He could claim he was buzzed. Shove her away, tell her it was a mistake so she’d leave his house in a huff, hurt and upset. That was how they usually operated, so it wouldn’t seem out of character for him to do something like that.
But . . . he couldn’t make himself do it. Now that he’d had a taste, he wanted another. He wanted more. He wanted to touch and feel and explore and kiss and undress and all those other bad, dangerous things he shouldn’t want. Not with Delilah.
“Lane.” She whispered his name when he broke the kiss to slide his lips along the length of her neck. She smelled damn good. Sweet and floral with a hint of spice. Her hair was incredibly soft and brushed against his face when he kissed her ear, nibbled on the lobe, murmuring her name and making her shiver. “Don’t stop.”
Why’d she have to go and say that? He lifted his head and stared down at her pretty upturned face, her lids at half-mast, her lips damp and swollen from their shared kisses. He should stop. He knew he should stop. Once he reached the point of no return all hell would break loose and he might scare Delilah. That was the last thing he wanted to do. She was a good girl. She deserved a man who would respect her and treat her like a princess. Lane respected the hell out of her, always had, but could he treat her like a princess?
Only if princesses liked to be fucked hard against a wall. Hell, his kitchen counter would do. But he doubted she would like that sort of thing. Well, she might at first but the novelty would wear off quick. The dirty talk might turn her off too.