Torn in pieces by his instincts and demons, he could only stand there for a second before finally barking, “What are you trying to do?”
Water sprayed the wall and she whirled, furious. “Good God, Jeremiah, why are you sneaking up on me?”
He glared at her, and despite his better sense stepped farther into the room. “Why are you hanging out with Ben and Walter?”
She turned off the faucet and turned to face him. Water splats turned her white shirt transparent in places and it clung to her, revealing the lace at the edge of her bra, the pink skin of her stomach. The shadow just under her collarbone.
Lust did not improve his mood.
“Did…is Ben upset about it?” she asked.
“No. I am.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I—” I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be reminded of you. I’m tired of having you in my head. “I just think it’s suspicious,” he said. “You don’t spend any time with Ben when we’re sleeping together and then, when we’re not, you’re suddenly sitting beside him at Walter’s feet two days a week.”
“Wait a minute…you think it’s about you?”
The way she said it proved what an idiot he was, but he was committed to this path.
“You think it’s not?” He shot back and she stiffened, her eyes narrowed and he was reminded of the way she’d used her knee against that drunk cowboy in the bar a few weeks ago.
His body wished he could get off this collision course.
But, instead of fighting him, she wiped her hands on her thighs and started to walk past him. Her chin up, dismissing him and his accusations.
Let her go, he told himself, his hands. Nothing good will come of touching her.
But when she was just past him he grabbed her elbow.
Her palm connected with his cheek and his whole head snapped back under the force of her slap. There was a breath, a moment for reason to prevail, for sense to guide his actions, but instead he grabbed her shoulders, yanking her against him, his lips smashing against hers.
She fought and he tried not to like it. He tried to let her go, but the best he could do was lift his lips from hers and press his forehead to the top of her head, his hands still holding her in an iron grip.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I miss you. I can’t…I see you and I miss you and I can’t remember why it’s a bad idea not to kiss you or touch you. I’m sorry. I am—”
She leaned away from him, her eyes, wise and knowing and feminine, searching his, seeing all his cracks and weaknesses.
“You’re a mess,” she whispered, and all he could do was try to laugh, but it came out sounding like a groan. Her arms lifted and he let her go, because he wasn’t the kind of guy to kiss a girl against her will, or…well, he’d never been before.
But then her arms wrapped around his neck and she was kissing him again and it was sweet. It was warm and tender. Caring. It wasn’t a kiss between strangers acting on their attraction. It was the kiss of friends, acting on their feelings.
And he liked it. Opened up to it like the land welcoming rain after the dry season.
And then the sweetness turned to heat and she pressed those curves against him and he stepped backward under the pressure of her body until his spine hit the wall. He put his hands back on her hips, carefully, slowly, not sure if he had the right. But she curled against him in agreement, in total acquiescence, and he slipped his hands up over her back, one hand under her hair, the other just under her shirt so his fingertips could soak in the sensation of her firm, tender skin.
He wanted to spread her out on a bed and explore this skin of hers. Chart her sensitive places, the hidden coves, curves. He’d wasted every minute they’d spent together not doing that, not memorizing her like a treasure map.
Her hand slipped under his shirt, her fingers skating across the skin of his back, up over his shoulders, to hold him against her. Her strength was formidable, or maybe it just seemed that way because his was all gone. Powerless against her, he arched, dying to be inside her in any way she would let him. They held each other as close and as hard as they could, welded together by the heat and sweat blooming under their skin.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry, his kisses told her. I’m sorry, he tried to convey though his touch, his heartbeat. You don’t deserve this. I wish things were different. I wish I had my old life back and could be normal.
“Uncle J?” Ben’s voice ripped the air and he jumped away from Lucy like a teenager caught by his parents.