Rafe rubbed his fingers against his palm. The dirt clung to his skin, while the feeling of her softness slid under it, into his flesh and blood, right down to his bones.
They both looked up at the same moment. Thea narrowed her eyes, her mouth tightening.
He schooled his face into innocence.
“Oops,” he said.
Thea tried to breathe, but breathing proved difficult when laughter and the lingering heat of Rafe’s impudent touch had robbed her of air. Yet air seemed inconsequential when Rafe was looking at her like that. With mischief and desire, and something else, something that made her feel special and interesting. As if whatever she did next would be the right thing to do, simply because she was the one doing it. It was a wondrous feeling, which mingled with the delicious sensations bouncing under her skin to make her reckless. More reckless, even, than when she had smeared dirt on him, merely as an excuse to touch his hair.
Not taking her eyes off his wicked face, stifling her laughter, Thea fumbled behind her. Her hands landed in the pot of a tangerine tree, with its treasure trove of soil and fallen fruit.
Rafe prowled closer. Closer. She pressed her bottom back against the table. His gaze flicked to the handprint over her breasts, and her skin burned yearningly at the memory of his touch.
Behind her, she rubbed both hands in the soil.
He drew nearer. His eyes intent. Seeing nothing but her.
She clutched a tangerine in each palm.
He stopped. The toe of his boot nudged her foot. That vast chest loomed barely a foot from her eyes. A crumb of soil tumbled down his cheek and he swiped at the dirt on his face.
A distraction. Ha! Using all her strength and weight, Thea pressed her tangerine-laden palms against his chest. Solid as a castle wall, he did not budge an inch.
Perfect!
The tangerines exploded under her palms, against his chest, and the tart scent of citrus filled the air. He yelled his protest as his arms flew up like wings on a startled bird, and his ribcage shifted beneath her hands. Relentless, she smeared the crushed fruit down the front of his waistcoat, leaving a triumphant trail of pulp and juice and dirt.
Then the giddy recklessness made her giggle, made her linger, made her hook a finger inside the waistband of his breeches. She tugged it an inch from his body, and—
“Oh no you don’t!” he cried.
—dropped the crushed tangerines inside.
Her feet were light as air and she danced away before he could react, darting around to put the solid width of the table between them, from where she could gloat in safety.
When he looked up at her, his body was as still as a cat on the hunt, and his eyes gleamed with predatory intent. Thea’s breathy laugh did nothing to distract him, and her body thrilled in anticipation of his revenge.
He slid a few steps to his left. She danced the opposite way, keeping the table between them. He slid back; so did she. He feinted one way, and then the other, and each time she kept her distance.
No catching her! Perhaps they would pass days this way, dancing around the table, until he—
He leaped onto the table.
A single bound of virile athleticism and he was back in control. Whichever way she ran, he had only to pounce and he’d be there first. Catching her. And then?
Thea backed away, her bottom meeting another bench, and drank in his magnificence as he stood on the table, like a sculpture displayed for her pleasure. With a wince, he tugged at his waistband, then ignored any discomfort and nimbly picked his way between the pots.
At the near edge of the table, he paused. Their gazes tangled. His eyes dared her to move. He twitched. She sidestepped. He pounced.
The second he landed, his hands slammed down on the bench on either side of her. Thea arched backward, and he leaned over her. His toes nudged hers, and his legs pressed against her skirts. He did not touch her but she felt him everywhere.
“Got you,” he whispered.
One hand shifted firmly onto her waist. She responded by pressing a palm to his bicep, the firm muscle hot through the linen of his shirt.
Then his other hand slid over her cheek and jaw, the fingers sliding into her hair, caressing her ear, and gliding back down, until his thumb touched her lips. She could not look away from the compelling heat in his eyes, as he traced the outline of her mouth. A warning, perhaps, or an invitation.
She let her lips part. Her own invitation.
Again he spoke, the delicious promise in his near-whisper curling over her skin like smoke.
“Now I have caught you, what shall I do with you?”
His head lowered, unstoppable as the tide. Thea let her eyelids flutter closed as his lips settled on hers, warm and sure and open. His kiss was full of purpose and triumph, as though kissing her was a long-sought prize and the one thing he absolutely had to do that day, and he was doing it with every ounce of focus he had.