He would take her down to the floor, push that skirt up over her thighs, pull down her panties, and claim her right there. He had the almost violent, primal urge to do just that, right here and now. He actually took a step toward her, cock hard, hands reaching . . . when she turned around and spotted him. Her smile stopped him dead in his tracks. A beautiful, innocent, and genuinely delighted smile.
“Oh, good morning,” she greeted, not knowing how very close he’d come to ravishing her on the fucking floor like a wild beast. “I trust you slept well?”
“No,” he growled and turned away from her. Any other morning he’d flirt and try to charm her, but not today, not after the frustrating night he’d just had. He was in an unpredictable mood. He didn’t trust himself not to say or do something stupid and scare her off.
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Were you in pain?”
“Yes.” Serious pain. All night long. The type of pain that could only be assuaged inside her body.
“Oh no. What can I do to help?”
He laughed bitterly and glared at her over his shoulder.
“Don’t fucking ask me that,” he growled, feeling like a wounded animal, and her eyes widened.
“I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he muttered angrily, and she pinned him with an annoyed frown.
“What’s your problem today?” she asked sharply, and he snorted a sarcastic laugh and stood with his arms spread, inviting her to look her fill. He was wearing only boxer briefs this morning, and she’d very stoically kept her eyes on his face since he’d joined her in the kitchen.
“I’d say that my problem is pretty fucking self-evident,” he growled, and her eyes did a quick sortie down his body and then very swiftly scampered back up to the safety of his face. Her cheeks had gone bloodred, and her breathing was coming in alarmed little pants.
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry.” Her words stymied him, and he stared at her for an instant before his arms dropped back down to his sides.
“What are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry about what happened between you and Laura Prentiss and that she isn’t here to help you with . . . with . . . uh, that.”
“She’s not, but you are.”
“What?” she gasped, her shock genuine, if the absolutely appalled expression on her face was anything to go by. “Women aren’t interchangeable, Brand. What an awful thing to say.”
“I never said they were, Lia,” he gritted, completely frustrated with the way this was going. It was too damned soon to be talking about this, to be suggesting this, but he’d been betrayed by his lack of patience and his own adolescent response to the woman in front of him.
“Look,” he began, praying for patience, while at the same time knowing that he was going to completely fuck up his already ill-conceived plan with his next words. “Remember how your one stipulation to our agreement was no ‘funny business’?”
“Of course,” she said warily.
“Well, I’m afraid there’s going to be some funny business. Possibly a lot of funny business. Right now, Lally is quite the furthest thing from my mind, princess. You’re the one responsible for this hard-on. You and your closet full of schoolmarm outfits. You and your neat little body and your prim lips and your dated sensibilities. I want you back in my bed. For however long I find myself here. I want you to stop your search for Mr. Right and focus on me . . . only me. But I want you to remember that I’m Mr. Wrong and not refocus your romantic attentions on me.”
“Is that all?” She tried for sarcasm, but her voice was breathless and lacked heat. She looked dazed, not sure how to respond to his words. He didn’t even know how to respond to his words—he was as shocked by them as she clearly was.
“Fuck me, not by a long shot, princess. I want to lean you over the kitchen counter, push your skirt up over your firm little bum, and pull down your panties, then I want to bury myself in you and lose myself in your tight heat until we both come.”
He went quiet and there was nothing but silence in the kitchen as they watched each other. She swallowed audibly and licked her lips.
“That’s . . .” Her voice emerged on a husky note and she cleared her throat. “Uh, that’s a lot, Brand. I don’t know what to say to that.”
“You can say ‘fudge it,’ throw caution and inhibitions to the wind, and fuck me?”
“I can’t,” she said, her voice carrying just the slightest hint of regret.
“Why not? Where’s the harm in it?”
“I’m not made that way. I don’t have casual flings.”
“I can think of at least two separate occasions when you did.”