Gentle, caressing . . . warning. That tone of voice made her ache with arousal even as she tensed at the dark undertone and the fact that he was moving closer.
“And I should have known better—why?” she asked, gripping the counter as she watched him warily. “I haven’t heard from you once since I returned that baby to her mother.” She swallowed tightly, the memory of the child a torment she couldn’t seem to escape.
“Because I spent the past four years doing everything I could to protect you? To make certain you were trained before throwing you into the field?” His jaw clenched as he bit out the words angrily. “And now you’re pushing your way into it as though it’s a Sunday picnic?”
Her brow lifted despite the fact that he was less than six inches from her and glaring down at her while his eyes flickered with amber fire within the green.
Hell, she’d never seen the color in someone’s eyes flicker like that. She’d definitely never seen his eyes do it. And if he was pissed now, God help her if he learned exactly what she was doing and who she was working for now.
“You have no idea what I’m doing, Cullen, and if I considered it any of your business, I would have contacted you myself and explained it all to you,” she informed him, narrowing her eyes back at him as she gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “And you don’t get to butt into my life now just because you decided you want to. I don’t work for you any longer.”
“Does that cancel out friendship?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, a decidedly calculating gleam entering his eyes.
He was trying to manipulate her. She knew Cullen when he was like this; he’d used just such tactics almost every time she’d lobbied for fieldwork.
“Friendship implies at least a small amount of respect. Something you don’t have for me, so let’s not pretend you do.” She didn’t like games, especially not the type that kept her in that carefully constructed box her family as well as Cullen seemed determined to keep her within.
C
onfusion raced through the anger and protectiveness Cullen couldn’t seem to push back.
“Where do you get the idea that I have no respect for you, Chelsea?” Bracing his hands on the counter on each side of her, he stared into her eyes, wondering if he could become lost in the dark depths of liquid emotion there. Not that he could often decipher the shadows of deeper emotion hiding beneath whatever she showed the world at any given time. He had often tried, though.
“Are you serious?” Her hands lifted, pushing against his chest, then remaining when he refused to move.
“Really, Chelsea,” he assured her. “What would make you think such a thing?”
It was inconceivable to him that she would believe something so ridiculous. They’d spent four years working together. She’d been closer to him than anyone else, even his closest friend, and she believed he felt no respect for her?
The laugh that left her lips was filled with hurt and anger. He hadn’t just made her angry; he’d hurt her, something he hadn’t meant to do. Something he hadn’t wanted to do.
“I trained for four years for the field.” She pushed at his chest again. “Four years and you wouldn’t even let me be a part of tech support. What is that if not a lack of respect for me and the training I busted my ass to learn?”
“You weren’t ready—”
“And as far you’re concerned, I’ll never be ready.” The cry broke from her as she pushed at his chest again, the sudden, wild scent of her slamming into his senses, taking him unaware. Enough so that he pulled back, giving her the opportunity to push past him.
She would have escaped. Hell, he should let her escape and he knew it. Instead, before the impulse was even thought, he caught her arm, pulling her back and trapping her against his chest.
That scent. It was like a summer rainfall in the Virginia mountains, pure and clean. And sweet. So sweet and fraught with a hidden kiss of heat that he found himself nearly dizzy. The scent of her wrapped around his head and sank inside him until he swore he could taste her against his tongue.
“What are you doing?” The whispered gasp barely registered as a myriad of scents twisted through him. “Dammit, Cullen, you can’t just kiss me whenever I piss you off.”
Whenever she pissed him off?
“Darlin’, I don’t just kiss you whenever I’m pissed off with you,” he assured her. “If I did, I’d have been kissing you every day for the past four years. Because I think you live to piss me off.”
And then he did kiss her.
As he covered her surprised lips, his tongue pushed past them and he sank into the sweetest living taste a man could ever know. She didn’t taste of another male, another’s kiss or passion. Her lips parted in surprise, her tongue stroking over his even as he slipped it past. Cool and sweet, a summer rain over desert heat, and he loved it, ached for more of it.
This woman and her taste had kept him awake night after night for the past month. The memory of her, of this need, was one he couldn’t push away, couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried.
She could become addictive.
One hand tightened on her hip, at first in protest. The sound of a subtle feminine moan pierced whatever reason might have risen to the surface at the moment. That sweet murmur of pleasure swept away any thought of letting her go. Any thought of releasing the sweet taste of her.
Cupping the side of her neck with his free hand to hold her in place, he deepened the kiss, his lips slanting over hers, a rough groan tearing from him as her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers spearing into his hair, blunt little nails scraping against his scalp.