I can recognize a half-truth from a mile away, but I can’t force him to say anything else. I touch his arm, gently, in an effort to soothe away some of his pain.
“Yes. That’s what I wanted to hear. Thank you for telling me. And thank you for being there.”
I move my fingers back and forth across his skin until the breath hisses in between his teeth.
“Don’t touch me.”
Mortified, I slide my hand back into my lap. This is not going well. I never should have let that slimy little paramedic get her hands on him. He was probably trying to get rid of me earlier. Trying to dump me off on Holden.
“For chrissakes, don’t look like that,” he snaps.
The sound of his voice causes a tiny earthquake in the truck. I shudder, but there’s a bemused twinkle in his face that gives me faint hope. He catches my gaze and holds it for the briefest of moments before turning his attention back to the road.
“As I meant to say, don’t touch me while I’m driving. I’ll crash the car.”
Desire is written into every crease of his face. The little ball of hope grows, flickering in the dusky light of the truck’s cab.
“How far are we from your house, exactly?” I ask, suddenly very curious about his newfound aspiration to be a racecar driver.
“Three minutes. Three, very long, never-ending minutes,” he grumbles.
“And I can touch you when we get there?” I ask innocently.
“Yes, damn it. Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Maybe I misunderstood. I’m not sure exactly what you just said.”
“Stella, I swear, if you don’t stop this little crazy seductress act, I am going to make you regret it. Stop talking. No talking. No touching. No flirtatious glances.”
I can’t resist just one more flirtatious look, and what I find takes my breath away. The scarlet flush of anger is creeping up his cheeks. He’s a mess, all tousled hair and flustered emotion, but he’s never looked more handsome. I let out a low chuckle when I see his knuckles wrap more tightly around the steering wheel.
“No laughter,” he says, in an unnaturally strangled voice. “Anything but laughter.”
My chest shakes under the force of the barely contained giggles. The brakes squeal again as he pulls the car into his driveway.
Before I have time to think or breathe, he sweeps me into his arms and closes his powerful mouth over mine, possessing and conquering every inch of it. He doesn’t stop, not even as he lifts me from the car and fumbles with the lock at the main door.
Finally, when we’re safely enclosed within the confines of his house, he drags me down to the marble floor and does a perfectly thorough job of wiping all of the laughter from my chest.
“Still feel like laughing?” he asks, curling my hair between his fingers.
“Not especially,” I murmur, pulling his mouth back to mine. “Maybe later, though.”
Time lengthens and stands still, and I’m in danger of falling completely out of my own skin. I have to say it before desire takes control of all of my senses. I draw back, and take his bewildered face between my hands.
The words come as naturally as breathing.
“I love you, Luke.”
H
is breath hitches, and I can feel his body, twisted and confused, rebelling against me. Crap. I shouldn’t have said it.
“Damn you, Stella.” He yanks my hair free of its ponytail and tangles his fingers into my curls. “Damn you,” he repeats, more softly this time, his hands still gently caressing my scalp.
“You’re too late. He already did,” I whisper.
I don’t think he hears.
With a ragged breath and a low, guttural groan, he pushes me off his chest and stares at me with his enormous, panicked blue eyes.
That small loss costs me more than I can bear to admit.
“We can’t do this. Not again. It will kill me. You will kill me.”
I say nothing, because I already know the truth—it’s too late to stop this. It might always have been too late, because whatever this is between the two of us, a gift or curse or bargain with God or the devil, is inevitable. I wait for him to catch up, but he’s stubborn. I push his silken strands of hair off his forehead so that I can see the tiny scar above his eyebrow, and I place a soft kiss to his flesh.
“Stella, if you don’t get away from me in the next three seconds, I will lose it. Now.”
It’s a tiny plea, no more than a whisper, but its ferocity takes my breath away.
“No.” I’m clear on this point. I’m not sure of much of anything, really, except for one thing—I love this man. I will always love him. And I think it’s possible that he loves me back.
The thought makes me bold. His skin glistens in the darkness, and I run my fingernails over the day-old stubble. When his body shakes, I cup his chin in my hands and touch my mouth to his soft lips.
My fingers graze the bottom of his t-shirt and start to roam upwards. I brush my lips against his cheek, his jawline, his neck, every single bit of him that I can sample. Despite the sweat of the club and the metallic scent of the ointment that the little paramedic put on his wounds, he tastes like sweet, decadent candy. As I continue to work my mouth lower, placing tiny, feathery kisses down his jawline, he’s impossibly still, as if one movement could cause the entire house of cards to come crumbling down. I’m not waiting for that. I refuse to stop, not until my skin melts into his. If he’s really opposed to this, he’s going to have to figure out a way to do that all on his own.
I run one finger up the length of his neck, and it acts as a trigger. He shivers and pushes against me, which only makes me wrap myself more deeply into his grasp.
When it finally dawns on him that I am not going to run, he closes his eyes once, squeezing them shut so tightly that the muscles in his face contract and retreat. A rasping, bottomless noise bursts from his throat, and just like that, he surrenders. I launch myself into his arms before he has the chance to take it back.
He knows that the battle’s been lost, and there’s no more hesitation in his hands, his fingers, or his kisses. Too many clothes. I twist in his arms, feeling the urgency and need burn a trail where his mouth has been.
He draws back and takes a thick, shuddering breath. “I want you. I want to tear off your clothes and make love to you on this floor until you beg me to stop. I want to touch every single inch of you. I want to devour you. I want you, and the fact that it’s wrong only makes me want you more.”
It’s not wrong. It is absolutely, perfectly right. I want him so badly that I will scream, cry, plead, and get down on my knees to beg, if he wants me to. I want to lose myself in his beauty, I want to feel his hands running over my skin, I want to let me devour every last drop of me, all of the good and bad and pain and joy all mixed up together.
He yanks the back of my head to his and touches his lips to mine. At first, his kisses are gentle, teasing, but it’s only a moment before they become more persistent, more filled with need. I want to give more, to take more, to own more of him, and his lips push harder and harder until he has every inch of me. It’s too fast. It’s too slow. Each jagged breath I take matches his, until we breathe together, already entwined.
Never in my life have I ever been so perfectly in tune with a person, not even myself. I’ve never known this kind of perfect harmony, this keeping pace, this realization that we were once part of the same earth and will be again. The last time, he was too busy fighting me to give in completely, not until that final moment when we came together and realized what it could be, between the two of us. It’s not sustainable, this kind of closeness. I should know better. But even the knowledge of that doesn’t stop me from wanting to hang on as long as I can.
I pull at the bottom of his shirt again, but I must not be quick enough for him, because he grunts impatiently and rips it from his body. I wrap my legs around his waist and we twist against each other. When he bends down to nibble at the delicate skin of my neck, an agonized moan escapes my lips. He merely smiles faintly and looks up with innocent eyes.
“Too much?” he asks, running one finger up my breastbone and all the way to my mouth. I try to catch it with my tongue, but he’s too fast, bending me backwards with his other hand. I arch my spine and push against him.
As I draw back, I catch a glimpse of his bare, golden, and beautifully muscled chest, and I can’t do anything but revel in the absolute perfection of his body. His muscles are deceptive, rippling under skin is bathed in golden honey. Even his eyelashes, which frame those deeply blue eyes, are dipped in it. Like Achilles.
He raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s considered rude to stare?”
I wrap my legs more tightly around him. “I’ll stare all I want.”
“Then I’ll do the same.”
I want to watch him as he looks at me. I want to see that sweet, sulky gaze, but the room is too dark for me to make out the contours of his face.
He stretches, flicking the lamp on and bathing the room in a rosy glow. I moan for the loss of his touch, but he returns in an instant.
“You’re too beautiful for the darkness,” he whispers, his voice soft and slow. Each syllable is drawn out, and it’s on purpose. He wants me to hear that. To believe that.
He pins me beneath him and brushes his mouth to my collarbone, which is already sensitized and burning for more. Unable to hold myself back, I shiver.
“Are you sure, Stella?”
It’s a ridiculous question and he already has the answer. I shake my hands free and slide them under his jeans, needing to touch all of his straining flesh.
“I am going to pay for this in hell,” he mutters.
“There’s nothing to pay for.”
He doesn’t believe me, which I see clearly when he lifts his eyes to mine. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue, but I’m unconcerned, since I have a number of ways to counteract his silly protests.
Sure enough, a furious flurry of sound flows from his mouth. I think he says, “I hate myself for doing this,” but I can’t be sure, and I can’t ask, since the words were never meant for me to hear.
But there’s no anger when he lovingly brushes his mouth over mine, pausing only to nibble on my bottom lip.
His determined hands wrap all the way around my back, inhibiting all of my movements as he lowers the zipper on my dress and pulls it away from my body. He gives it a disgusted look before tossing it into the far reaches of the room, and in one smooth motion, he unclasps my bra, reaching to fondle me with gentle, tender hands.
When his teeth graze my neck, I press my body against his, desperate for more flesh to join myself to. As his tongue flicks one nipple and then the other, his hands cup my heavy breasts, curving and circling and kissing until I’m aroused to the point of pain.
I can’t play this game much longer. I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.
“I love this freckle,” he whispers, kissing the nape of my neck before dipping his fingers in between my thighs.
I wrap my fist around him, needing to touch, needing to know whether or not he’s as close to bursting apart as I am.
He pushes my hand away, pinning my arms above my head and leaving me powerless to stop his wandering mouth from torturing me further. “No. Not unless you want this to be over before it begins.”
“Why do you love that particular freckle? There are plenty of others to choose from, you know,” I say lightly, trying to distract him enough so that I can wriggle free. “I’m a freckle machine.”
He focuses his intense gaze on mine. “It’s saucy. A little sweet. Bold. Distinctive. Stubborn.”
He brushes one finger, and then two, against my curls at the apex of my legs. I lift myself off the marble floor, desperate for more. In one quick swipe, he moves them inside, delving into the depths of my wetness.
Lightning blasts through me, but it’s too soon, and I arch my back to slip away.
Two can play at this game. I reach down and take him into my hand, teasing him with long, fluttering movements until his groans overtake mine. I use my mouth to explore further, kissing his face, his neck, his chest. I pause when I reach his lower stomach, and then I dive in, covering his skin with kisses and tasting the sweetness.
“Stella, I need to be inside you.” His raw need rips at my heart. “We can play later. But I can’t...I don’t...”
“I need you inside me, too,” I whisper. I want to communicate the enormity of that need, but I have no words. I can’t be alone any longer. I need him to melt into me.
Still, I moan softly against his mouth in protest when he removes the long, delicate, impossibly skilled fingers.
He brushes a kiss against my hair before reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out a condom and sliding it over himself.
He rolls me beneath him, hovering above me. But I want control. I watch to watch his face as I take it from him.
In one movement, I roll on top of his body, holding him in place with my thighs, pulling him closer and covering his body with mine.
Slowly, one inch at a time, I sink onto him, enclosing his full length tightly within me. There’s a delicious kind of pain.
“Jesus, you are so tight,” he mutters, clenching his jaw. “You’re going to kill me. Really.”
“I hope not.” I laugh. “Not before we finish this.”
He cups both of my breasts, kneading and weighing and pinching with a naughty expression.
I push down and begin to move my hips, needing all that he can give me. He fills me entirely. I am complete. I rock my body slowly, knowing that any quick movements spell danger. I want more time. I want more of this, more of him. We need to talk, but my body can say things that words cannot.
His hands grip my shoulder blades, digging into my skin and I begin to move faster. I throw my head back and lift myself up, falling into an endless rhythm.
I’m about to fall off the edge when he slides his body over mine, reversing the power structure.
I catch the barest hint of laughter in his face. “Still greedy.”
“For you. Always.”
He thrusts all the way into me, tilting his hips and growling into my ear. Our bodies aren’t just joined—they’re one and the same. Every inch of my skin burns. Any second, I’ll be consumed by it, that fire that only he can build.