Rafe, to his credit, didn’t take his coffee and run. He maneuvered her into the living room, put her mug on the oversize glass table strewn with sand dollars, and sat her in the low-slung leather sofa she’d bought less for comfort than its ability to sit there looking sexy. Aside from an occasional pat on the shoulder, he let her cry until the worst of the storm passed. When the sobs subsided to deep, shuddery breaths, he handed her the mug, waited until she’d downed a swallow, and said, “Tell me what’s going on.”
She did, in a disjointed, wandering, but mostly PG-rated version of the heartbreak she’d decided to bring on herself.
“All right,” he said carefully, “let me see if I’ve got this straight. Nick showed up for the date, and that shows he’s not interested in you?”
“Exactly. If he were into me, he wouldn’t have kept the date with Arden St. Sebastian. Look, I know it’s messed up—”
“He knew it was you.”
“—but he let me think he wanted…what?”
“He knew it was you,” Rafe repeated. “As much as it kills me to lift suspicion from this guy, he knew. I ran into him in the hotel lobby before you and I went to breakfast last week. He’d seen us embrace, and he accused me of cheating on Chelsea. I told him I didn’t think Chelsea would mind me kissing my sister.”
Arden absorbed the news while her brother sipped his coffee. Holy…shit. “He knew,” she whispered. Rafe nodded.
He’d known when he’d left the note. He’d known the next evening, when she’d been so hurt and angry she’d basically told him she only wanted one thing from him. Oh my God, the whole time she’d been testing him and thinking he’d failed, he’d been testing her. And she’d failed.
She shot off the couch. “I have to go back to Maui.”
“Hey, they have this great new invention. It’s called the phone—”
“Where is your soul? The first time I tell Nick I love him can’t be over a phone.”
The doorbell interrupted whatever counterargument her brother intended to offer. “Sit.” Rafe motioned her back. “I’ll get it. I don’t know what you ordered,” he grumbled, “but it’s fucking early for FedEx.”
When he pulled open the door, his scowl deepened. “No. I’m not signing for this.”
What in the world? Arden got up and crossed to the entry. She blinked. Nick stood in her doorway, looking rough-jawed and rumpled, and very, very determined.
…
In some secondary part of his brain, Nick noted Rafe standing in the doorway, being a dick. The same part of his brain registered weathered gray boards and fresh white trim paint, and the random tinkling of a driftwood and sea glass wind chime. The main part of his brain focused on only one thing—Arden, hovering in the entryway, staring at him in lip-parted, wide-eyed surprise.
“How? No…” She shook her head as if to clear it, and started again. “What are you doing here?”
He should have prepared for this question better. Should have prepared something charming and persuasive. Now that he saw her, all he could think was to lead with his established strength. “I promised you a soul-deep, hurts-so-good, cry-for-mercy orgasm. Are you ready?”
Charming and persuasive enough, he decided, when she launched herself at him. He closed his arms around her and staggered under the momentum of her body. Long legs wrapped around his waist, slender arms twined around his neck, soft lips rained kisses over his face—and he was home.
An aggrieved voice muttered, “I’m out.” Without turning, Nick kicked the door. It shut behind him with a reverberating slam.
So much to say, but it would have to wait—everything would have to wait—because the czarina’s hands were already pulling his shirt open. Buttons ricocheted off the baseboards. Her lips were already clinging to his, hips already pressing closer, her tongue already seeking to mate with his. He braced her against the entryway wall and drew back to speak, but—
“You. I need you.” She speared her fingers into his hair. “Now.”
He needed her, too, in every way imaginable, but the urgency right now was physical, and suddenly impossible to contain. There would be no slow seduction. No turning her around, lifting her hair, lowering her zipper, and stripping her sleek midnight-blue dress off while kissing his way down her spine.
“Hold on,” he said, but then he did the holding, tightening his arms around her protectively as he dropped to his knees. She cried out—a cock-twisting combination of shock and gratitude—when he settled her on the floor. Her hands flattened on the wide, bleached planks, but her legs remained locked tight around his waist. Another cry flew from her throat—all gratitude this time—when he hitched them over his shoulders and shoved her skirt up.
“I wish I had time to peel you out of that dress and get you properly naked, but neither of us would survive. Look at these panties”—he drew a finger down the center of the white silk—“so wet. This pussy is crying for attention, isn’t it?”
“A lot,” she practically sobbed as she propped her head against the baseboard and aimed accusing eyes at him. “You addicted me to having a lot of attention, and then you sent me to my room on Friday without any relief.” Her voice carried the sting of that punishment, but she lifted her hips to chase his touch. Rushed hands tunneled under the collar of his shirt. Her fingernails raked his back.
He teased his fingers along the panties again. “Did you use that toy I bought you to give yourself some relief? Spread yourself out in front of that big mirror and enjoy everything I was missing? Did you call me a bastard when you came?” The image of it had him scrambling to unfasten his pants and free his cock. “It’s okay if you did. I had it coming after not seeing to you myself that night, and I suffered enough for both of us.”
“I tried,” she admitted on an uneven breath. “I wanted to.”
He leaned in so he could see her face. “Where did you put it?”