Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

All of those moments felt real and romantic, but it was all a charade. Because when we were in the suite, all of that touching fell away.

No contact. No overture. No advances of any kind.

Which was expected, I suppose. Because I'd told him my terms. I'd pretend to be his fiancee in public, and that was as far as it went.

But now I can't help but wonder if the attraction is one-sided. If he'd only wanted an easy lay the night of the opening, and all of the heat I feel between us now is nothing more than my own desire reflected back on me.

I don't think so ... but I don't know. How can I know? He's an actor, after all. A damn good one.

And now I'm afraid that the only way to find out if this attraction is one-sided is for me to make the first move. Which, considering how little experience I have in that department, is a hell of a lot scarier than the drop in the Guardians of the Galaxy ride.

Even so, I draw a deep breath and plunge into what I hope will prove to be very warm and receptive water.

"Do you want to come in?" I ask, feeling oddly shy considering how much time we've been spending together. "I can make you a cup of coffee for the road. Besides," I add, "we should sort out the souvenirs."

"I'd love coffee," he says, and I consider that a good sign. It's almost midnight, after all, and I know he's tired, too.

There's a pile of mail in the box that attaches to the inside of my gate, and I grab it on the way in, noticing that one large brown envelope came by courier and not regular mail. But I'm not interested in any of it right now, and I toss the whole batch on the kitchen table as I start to brew us both some coffee.

Lyle's leaning against the counter, telling me something about the farewell party we're attending tomorrow night for his friend Noah, but I'm not listening. I'm gathering courage. And when the Keurig is finished brewing the first cup, I put it down on the counter beside him, then take his hand when he starts to reach for it.

He stills, then looks down at my hand on his. When he looks back up, there's a question in his eyes. And, I think, an invitation.

"I don't want this night to be over," I admit, barely able to hear my own words over the pounding of my heart.

"Sugar..."

I don't know where he's going with that thought, but I'm not letting him get there. I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him, and--thank God--he kisses me back. Gentle at first, but with enough heat that it sets off a riot of sensations inside me.

I moan, my fingers twining in his hair as he draws me close, taking the kiss deeper. Wilder. Until he's claiming me with such intensity that I'm certain that this isn't one-sided at all. On the contrary, it's very, very two-sided. And, as my body clenches and my pulse quickens, I can't help but hope that it will be horizontal soon, too.

His hands grip my shoulders, and he breaks the kiss long enough to look at my face. I know what he sees. My flushed skin. My swollen lips. My eyes wild with desire.

"Please," I beg, and it's as if I've flipped a switch. I gasp as he presses me back against the refrigerator in one swift motion. He gives me no time to recover, instead taking full advantage of my surprise. His mouth closes brutally over mine. Teeth and tongue and heat and passion--a heady potion that's making me drunk. Making me wild. Eager.

I'm craving him like a drug, my hands roaming his body. Seeking. Claiming. And when I slide my hand roughly down to stroke his erection, he practically growls as his teeth tug at my earlobe and his hands roughly cup my breasts.

I stroke him, feeling him grow harder under my hand. All coherent thought has left me, replaced by basic, primitive emotions--want, need, have, take.

* * *

His hand slides down to cup me through my jeans, and I whimper, shamelessly stroking myself against his fingers, wishing he'd just open my fly and slide his hand inside my pants and touch me.

Oh, God, how I want him to touch me...

And he wants it, too. I'm certain of it.

Which is why I'm so damn surprised when he gently pushes me away, looking at me with heated eyes, his desire held tightly at bay.

"What?" I demand. "What's wrong?"

"You don't want this," he says, and I curse myself for having stupidly shut this down that first time.

"I do," I say. "Lyle, dammit, please."

"Sugar, baby--"

The frustration in his voice is palpable, and I know how hard he's working to hold back. And, dammit, I don't want him holding back.