Ignoring the ominous pang in my chest at the thought of not seeing Myles again, I curl my hands in the front of his T-shirt and savor the answering rumble in his chest. “Help me learn exactly what I want. And how to ask for it.”
He tugs me close by the material of my skirt and our laps meet, both of us biting our lips and exhaling unsteadily over the contact. The unmistakable proof that he wants me. “You’re the kind of woman who comes with strings, Taylor.”
“M-maybe.” I force myself to mean the next part. Really mean it. No matter what happens, I have to remember this man is not for me. Not for anyone. He’s made that clear and I won’t make the mistake of thinking I can change his mind. “I might come with strings, but I won’t attach any of them to you.”
A trench forms between his brows.
He opens his mouth to speak, closes it.
Then heat floods into his eyes, a dam visibly breaking inside of him, and I’m being thrown over his shoulder and carried into the house.
Chapter 8
Myles
What am I doing?
Something bad. Something very unwise.
Put her down. She’s not for you.
Tell that to my fucking stomach. Or my chest. Both of which locked up tighter than the US Treasury when I saw her standing on the beach. First there was relief to see her safe. Then there was this bone-deep satisfaction that I haven’t even begun to unpack. All I know is I liked her waiting for me. I liked us arriving at the same destination and breathing the same air. Even when she’s pissed at me, which has been most of our acquaintance, it doesn’t occur to me to walk away. Or take off. It’s almost natural to stick. Or follow her siren song of an ass all the way home. Jesus, what has gotten into me?
She’s wife material.
She’s someone’s future wife.
That should be the reason I go back to my motel room and drink whiskey until the peppy apple scent of her dulls in my blood. Instead, the fact that she’s someone’s future wife is the reason I’m kicking open the rear screen door, with my cock already at full mast. I’m jealous. God, no wonder people do stupid shit when they’re feeling this way. It’s like my insides are all gummed up and functioning improperly. I’m sweating, muscles tense. And all I can think about is ruining her for anyone else.
Apparently jealousy goes hand in hand with selfishness.
That gives me pause.
Selfishness. Now that’s a sin I’m familiar with.
I don’t want to be that way to Taylor.
I can’t. I…like her. I like her sense of humor and the way she swings wildly from one extreme emotion to the next, as if she’s feeling too much of everything. She’s all bright splashes of color on the gray canvas I’ve been staring at while half awake. She’s mischievous and doesn’t let me get away with being rude. Why don’t I hate that? Shouldn’t I?
Bottom line, this is messy. This attraction between us is so fucking messy, I would be downright irresponsible—a bastard—for giving in. I’m the experienced one. When she says she won’t tie any of her strings to me, I shouldn’t take her word for it, nor should I want to commit cold-blooded murder to the man who earns those strings. Yet I know if the nameless, faceless son of a bitch was in front of me right now, I’d be doing a life sentence in no time.
No.
Pull back. I’m just in the moment, right?
I’m touching her. I’m hot as hell to swap orgasms.
I’ve never needed on this insane of a scale before, so my emotions are probably heightened. As soon as we work this out of our system, I’ll have my head back on straight.
I just have to make doubly sure she’s on the same page, so I don’t lead her on.
“Taylor,” I say, dragging her off my shoulder, her tits sliding over my shoulder and pressing up against my pecs. Damn. As soon as we’re eye level, I keep her there, which means her feet are dangling nearly a foot off the floor and I try really hard not to dwell on how protective that makes me feel. My hold tightens. Roughly. “Hey. You understand this is physical. Nothing more. Right?”
“Right.” She nods, those vivid green eyes trained on my mouth. “I promise. You’re a tool of self-discovery for me. That’s all.”
“Right.” Why am I suddenly made of stone? “Okay.”
My throat feels uncomfortable. Maybe I just need clarification.
“So when you say tool—”
“Should I take off my clothes?” Earnestly, she searches my face. “Or are you going to?”
Fine. Fuck it. I’m a tool of self-discovery. Sold. “Me. I’m taking them off.”
I don’t even know where we’re going. Only that I’m suddenly carrying her through the living room to the back of the house to get away from the multitude of windows that look out onto the street. We enter one of the bedrooms—one that doesn’t look to be occupied—and I kick the door shut behind us, settling Taylor on her feet.