Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

My body wanted his. It wanted to draw out every inch of pleasure from him and take and take and take.

I came with a guttural cry that echoed around the workshop, my inner muscles clamping down hard around Michael. He swelled inside me and then throbbed, his hips shuddering against me in pulsing hot waves of wet release.

For a moment we clung to each other, quivering in the aftermath.

Then reality hit.

Cold. Hard. Reality.

What the hell had I done?

“Oh my God.” I pushed against him, and Michael lifted his head from where it had been tucked into my neck.

His expression was guarded, wary as he eased off me.

I gasped as he pulled out and his eyes flared with renewed heat. “You on the pill?”

A bit goddamn late to ask that! I nodded. Flustered was an understatement.

“I’m clean, just so you know.”

“Me too,” I muttered.

Neither of us moved to fix our clothes.

“You’re going to say that didn’t mean anything,” he said, his voice thick with unnamed emotion.

I shook my head, unbearably sad, guilty, and confused. “It will always mean something with you.”

“Then don’t push me away.”

That ugly knot I felt whenever I gave into the idea of Michael and me returned. That ugliness would always be there, stopping me.

And hurting him.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Michael.”

Indignation flared in his eyes, and I watched helplessly as he put himself to rights. Even in his frustration, he didn’t walk out. No, he found my underwear, and despite my protests, he insisted on putting them back on for me. Then he buttoned my dress.

His fingers lingered on the last button, and he looked from it to me. “What aren’t you telling me, Dahlia?”

Scared that he might see the abhorrent truth inside me, I shook my head and tried to push him away, to slip off the bench.

But he held me there with the solid strength of his body. “There’s something else here. Something I don’t get. I’m not that stupid kid, afraid of rejection anymore. I can see past my own bullshit now. And I see you.” He tapped a finger against my chest. “You’re hiding something. Luckily for me,” he leaned down to whisper across my lips, “I dig out people’s secrets for a living.” He kissed me. It was hard, irate … until it wasn’t. Until it was sweet, tender, and searching. Like he couldn’t make himself stay irritated with me.

When Michael let me up for air, his breathing was shallow too. “I’m going to give you some time, some space to think.” He retreated and exhaled. “That doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Michael.” I shook my head. “You cloud my emotions so I can’t think when you touch me, but that doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. And you are the last person I ever want to hurt.”

My words did the opposite of what I’d intended—they didn’t push him away.

He smiled. Boyish. Hopeful. “I love clouding your emotions. I intend to do it often and well. I’ll see you around. Maybe at the Carnival.” He winked and walked out of my place with an obvious jaunt to his step. He would be jaunty. He just got himself some in the middle of his working day.

He was also the most stubborn man I’d ever met.

I winced as I hopped off the bench, realizing I needed to clean up. As I walked toward the restroom, I glanced back at the bench and groaned. He’d tainted my workshop. It smelled of sex in here. My diffusers would mask it soon enough.

But no amount of coconut diffusers could scrub away the memory of Michael Sullivan making love to me on my workshop bench.