“It sure seems like it.”
“Well, I can assure you that I don’t.”
“Go away, Ryan. Let’s just both pretend that you said sorry and I forgave you. Let’s end it here.” I say, my patience gone, as I head through to the back of the café, leaving him in the main room. I don’t want to waste any more time arguing with him, getting myself all worked up.
I stack the dishes onto the shelves, wiping down the worktop, then put the final load into the dishwasher.
“Could we try talking without jumping down each other’s throats?” My body shakes at the sound of his voice, for no real reason. “Christine…this makes no sense. We got off on the wrong foot right from the start, from the first day I came in here. And I don’t even know why.”
“Maybe we just wind each other up.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what it is,” he says, but his voice lowers into a tone that gives me goosebumps.
I feel him stepping closer, smell his scent diffusing around the room, overpowering everything – including my senses.
“Christine…”
His breath is on my neck, his voice against my skin. My name falls seductively from his lips.
His hands are sliding slowly over my shoulders.
Oh my God,those hands. Shivers are trembling through me. My own breath starts to suffocate me; his closeness consumes me.
“It’s better if you just go,” I tell him, because if he stays this close to me, I could make a huge mistake. The sort of mistake that not even two bottles of wine can erase.
“Believe me, I want to,” he whispers.
“So what are you waiting for?” I say, unconvinced, my legs shaking.
His hands stop tormenting me, and he places them on the counter in front of us.
“I don’t know,” he breathes into my ear. “I shouldn’t be here. This is the last place I should be.”
He’s right. Heshouldn’tbe here – there’s no reason for him to be. But the thought of him walking out that door and leaving me again terrorises me.
None of this makes any sense – not in my head, and definitely not in his – but I want it anyway. And he does, too.
“I can’t leave.”
It’s only when he murmurs these words that I realise just how much I desperately wanted to hear them.
He takes his hands off the counter and moves them towards my legs – I can feel their heat before he’s even touched me. He wraps his hands around my thighs, and just the pressure of his fingers makes me tremble. He slides slowly up until he reaches the hem of my dress, hesitating for a moment before he continues.
A breath I’d been holding for far too long escapes my lips in a burst.
“Do you want me to touch you?” he asks, still in that voice. Andhell, yes:I want him all over me.
His hands continue their journey, brushing against my flesh. They’re huge hands – hands that take without asking. Hands that make you forget who the hell you are. They slide along the small of my back, along the top of my buttocks.
“Should I stop?” he asks, his breathing heavy.
Jesus, don’t you dare.
I shake my head firmly.
He grabs my butt. Squeezes. Imprints his touch onto my skin, demanding.
Ryan O’Connor is a man who is not used to asking permission.
