“So?” She didn’t deny it. She was alone. She was relieved her out-of-control hunger for him had somehow escaped his notice. But now that she was so close, that wouldn’t last for long. Her heart was slamming against her ribs and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. Because breathing drew in his scent, his tantalizing, captivating, enticing scent.
“And there’s this.” He pointed at her, then himself—stepping so close that his breath fanned her hair. “There’s still a hell of a...connection between the two of us.” He practically growled the words. Her body tightened, expectant, at the sound of his undeniable hunger.
For her.
His attention wandered to her mouth, leaving no doubt what he wanted. He felt it too. Of course he did.
She could sway into him, give in... But she should fight it. Even if his lips were so close. “Yes.” It took a lot of effort to form a coherent answer.
“Yes?” he repeated, his nostrils flaring as his gaze locked with hers.
“Yes. I am alone.” Her voice wavered.
He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw hard as rock. “That’s all?” he asked. “I won’t touch another man’s wife.” He ground out the words. “But, dammit, I want to kiss you so bad it hurts.”
Kiss me. She stared at him, gripped by a crushing, desperate ache. Touch me. “I’m no man’s wife. But I don’t want you to kiss me,” she whispered.
2
SPENCER STARED DOWN at her, his nerves strung so tight he worried he’d pop.
Tatum was here.
And all he could think about was touching her, tasting her. Silk. Warmth. Pure temptation. And even though he had no right to touch her, to think of her tangled up with him, he couldn’t stop himself. His body responded to her without reason, as if they hadn’t been living separate lives for years.
Her quiver revealed her lie. She wasn’t immune to him.
“I don’t believe you,” he argued.
She drew in a wavering breath. “I don’t care what you believe.” There was an edge to her voice. She wasn’t immune to him—but she was going to fight it.
Her green eyes clashed with his and he smiled at her. This was Tatum. The girl who’d stolen his heart, the girl he’d lived for. The girl he’d crushed, shredding his own heart in the process. He’d missed her every day for the last eight years.
He reached up, smoothing an errant curl from her forehead. “Your hair is longer.”
She didn’t say anything as he threaded the curl between his fingers. The curl coiled around him, clinging to him the way he envisioned her clinging to him.
“So is yours,” she whispered.
A woman alone protects herself. He’d heard her. No man’s wife. For the first time, nothing was stopping them. Except maybe the defiance in her gaze.
He saw the way she looked at his mouth, the way her lips parted and her hands tightened on the counter’s edge. There was a restlessness about her he’d never seen in her before. She was nervous... That was obvious. Hell, he was nervous. But it was more than that. It was their past. What he’d done was reprehensible. Could she still hate him so much that she couldn’t bear to be close to him?
Or did she hate that she still wanted him?
From the look on her face, it’d be all too easy to assume it was the latter. Because that was what he wanted. Badly. The way she was looking at him now, flushed and dazed, focused on his mouth... He hadn’t been this hard since he was sixteen.
He stepped forward, erasing the small space between them. His thumbs ran along her jawline, tracing the soft skin of her neck and the shell of her ear. She closed her eyes, her lips parted, her breath escaping on unsteady gasps. He watched her response, her arousal driving him crazy. “How long?” he asked, his tone soft.
Her green eyes fluttered open. “How long?” she repeated, breathless.
“Since you’ve been...kissed.” He bit out the last word. “How long has it been since a man’s loved your body?”
“My body is none of your business.” But the tremor in her voice told him he wasn’t imagining this. Her hands gripped the counter edge as if she was holding herself back. She wanted him, even if she didn’t want to accept it.
“And it’s a damn shame,” he murmured, longing to pry her hands from the counter, to feel her fingers slide through his hair. Before he was through, she’d be holding on to him.
He smiled as his lips brushed her startled mouth—featherlight, a whisper of a touch. She shuddered as his nose traced the length of her neck. “You smell just as sweet,” he murmured. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, her little sigh making the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. “You taste the same.” It was true. And it was torture. When he pressed her back, pinning her hips against the cabinets, the feel of her curves against him almost brought him to his knees.