He stepped around her and walked toward his dresser to pull a drawer open and find a pair of boxers to sleep in. He didn’t want to look back, didn’t want to watch her walk out. He’d had a hard enough time with the first good-bye. But when he lifted his head, Cela hadn’t left the room, she’d simply turned his way and was staring at him in the mirror.
He frowned at her reflection. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to leave.”
He turned around to face her. “Cela—”
“Why don’t I want to leave?” She closed her eyes and shook her head.
Her words caught him off guard, the desperation in her voice—the want. He let his gaze drift down her body, taking in the quick rise and fall of her chest, the shadow of her nipples pressing against her top, the restless shifting of her body. The sight wrung the breath right out of his lungs.
The fear hadn’t run her off. It had triggered something else entirely—something that had glued her feet to the floor. Cela was completely and utterly turned on.
Every impulse in Foster’s body rushed past his better judgment, and good intentions died a quick death. This he couldn’t walk away from.
Oh-so quietly, he let the words pass his lips. “Tell me your safe word, angel.”
She stood there for the longest time, eyes closed, fist balled; but then as if it were being spoken by some force outside herself, she said, “Tequila.”
And the soft-spoken word was like a gunshot ringing in his ears, signaling the starting gates opening. Everything that had been building in him over the days since he’d been with her, every frustration, every long ni
ght, poured into his veins, fueling him. Tonight would either scare her away from men like him forever or it would prove him wrong about what she was and wasn’t ready for. Either way, the time for debate was done.
Tonight, she’d be his.
EIGHTEEN
I couldn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t move, really. Everything in me was in full-fledged panic mode—red lights flashing, sirens sounding.
But I was locked in place. Dying.
Dying for Foster to touch me. Dying to see this secret part of him. And dying to know why, when every part of my good sense said to run, my body had decided to wave the white flag.
“Eyes on me, Cela,” Foster said, his firm voice breaking through the quiet of the room and the sound of my own harsh breathing.
I swallowed past the dryness in my throat and forced my eyes open, finding a shirtless Foster leaning against his dresser, his arms braced on each side of him. The muscles in his shoulders rippled and flexed, as if his hold on the piece of furniture was the only thing restraining him from charging me.
“You have five seconds to walk out if you don’t want to be here. One . . .”
My heart was beating so fast, my chest hurt—like actually hurt.
Foster pushed off the dresser and took a step forward. “Two.”
Never had I felt like this. Not even when Dalton Roarke, the hottest guy in my high school, had kissed me with tongue during a skit in drama class. I thought I’d pass out back then, but that light-headedness was nothing compared to being under Foster’s purposeful gaze.
“Three.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. I knew it. He knew it. I shook my head.
“Two.”
He was arm’s length away now, and I could see a glimmer of his own trepidation behind the intensity. If I wasn’t scared before, that put me right over the top. On some instinctual level, both of us knew he was opening a door that couldn’t be closed again. This would be the before moment in our relationship—if you could even call it a relationship. Once he took that last step, we’d be entering the after. But I was mired in the quicksand already. For good or bad, I was a willing victim in whatever tonight brought.
Instead of saying one, he moved into my space and cupped my shoulders. The energy humming through him seemed to seep through my skin and make everything inside me crackle with tension. “Cela.”
“I’m still here,” I said, my voice a tremble of a thing.
“So you are.”