Runaway Groom (I Do, I Don't 2)

Yeah. Okay. You go ahead and say it. I’m a dick, and this is not my finest moment.

But damn her for making me feel shit I haven’t felt in forever. There’s a reason I haven’t let anyone get close, haven’t let myself enjoy more than a quick fuck. This is why.

Because it sucks when they don’t feel the same way back.

Ellie opens her mouth, and though I’d bet anything that she wants to say something tart and feisty, she inhales choppily. Her chin wobbles a split second before her hazel eyes fill with unshed tears.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

I take two steps toward her and place my hands on either side of her face. “Don’t. Ellie. Please don’t.”

If I was a decent guy, I’d simply hold her—offer a reassuring hug and apologies.

I’m not a decent guy, because all I can think is that I want her—and that this is my last shot.

I lower my head and kiss her.

Ellie

I’m expecting Gage’s kiss to be angry, and it is, a little bit. His hands when they pull me to him are just the slightest bit rough, his kiss more possessive than gentle.

But there’s something else mixed in with the anger, something so poignant and demanding that it nearly brings me to my knees.

What is with me? A second ago I was on the verge of crying. The tears disappeared the second his lips touched mine, but they’ve been replaced by something even more disconcerting: fear.

Fear that it’s more than desire I’m starting to feel for this man. A man who’s everything that scares the crap out of me. I want stability and calm and routine, and he’s not exactly Mr. White Picket Fence.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his thumbs drifting across my cheeks with a tenderness that belies the harshness of his words just moments ago.

I didn’t ask you to get fucking married.

Right. He didn’t. And I’ve made it more than clear that I want no part of Jilted or the wedding at the end.

It’s just that the thought of one of the other women touching him like this, the image of him holding Brooklyn or Cora the way he’s holding me…well, it hurts. And not just with the sting of jealousy, although there’s plenty of that. It hurts so much deeper than that, in a place inside me that I haven’t let anyone into in, well…ever?

I make a plea to my heart: Let it be sex. Please just let it be sex.

Determined to make it so, I run my hands up over his arms, my nails scraping at his broad shoulders, before tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth even closer to mine.

Gage’s hands glide over my back, then find the knot of the bathrobe’s belt, untying it and sliding his hands inside to touch me. His palms are cool against my heated skin, making me gasp as he strokes my waist, my rib cage.

He pulls back, his eyes locking on mine as his thumbs brush over my nipples, a rough, torturous tease. His gaze drops to his hands on my breasts. He licks his lips as he touches me, and the simple gesture makes me moan even before he gently pinches with just enough pressure to make me arch into him.

Gage bends me back gently, a hand against my back, his lips wrapping around the tip of my breast, his tongue still cool from the champagne, his teeth just the slightest bit punishing from our fight.

Needing to touch him, I ease his boxers over his hips, my fingers wrapping around his thick erection. Gage groans against my chest, his breath hot against my nipple before he pulls it into his mouth once more.

As good as he feels in my hand, as skilled as his mouth is, I bite my lip in frustration, somehow wanting more. I’m somehow too aware that I’ve been thoroughly, easily seduced by Gage Barrett, one of dozens. He’s in control, and we both know it.

Screw that.

I release him and wriggle away, ignoring his growl of frustration.

Holding his gaze, I reach up to my shoulders, pushing the edge of the robe slowly until the terry cloth drops to my feet.

His eyes flare with heat as he drags his gaze over my naked body, but when he takes a step forward, I hold up a finger. Wait.

Gage narrows his eyes, then widens them as I trail my fingers idly across my chest, my pinky finger grazing my nipple before my hand slides lower, looping lazy lines over my stomach, moving ever downward until my fingers reach moisture.