“Stop it,” she says breathlessly.
“I can’t! You owe me an explanation. You’re driving me insane with trying to understand what the fuck’s going on. I acted like a jackass on Sunday. I was jealous. The thought of you spending any time with your ex…it made me unreasonable. I’m sorry.”
She says nothing.
“I need you.” I bring my lips close to her skin but not quite touching. She smells like peaches and spring, like everything I want. “Stop pushing me away.”
I’m itching to touch her, to kiss her, to claim her as mine. My fingers skim lightly down her side in a soft caress. Her chest rises and falls. I want her so much I can barely think.
“I want you. I want all of you, and I’m going crazy with the need to touch you. I want to bury myself so deep inside you it would be impossible to tell where you end and I begin. I want to hear you scream when you come. I can hardly think of anything else.”
Her eyes flutter closed, and I breathe in the scent of her heated skin, of her arousal.
“I remember everything,” I whisper urgently. “The sounds you make in your throat, the exquisite taste of your pussy, the way you cry out when you come, the perfect curve of your breast in my hand. I remember what it’s like to sleep with you in my arms, Rachel, and sometimes I don’t know what I want more—to fuck you or just to hold you.”
Her skin is flushed, and her breath is a soft pant that tells me what I already know.
She wants me.
Her eyes are tightly shut. “Please,” she whimpers.
I’m so confident about how well I know her body, the only thing I expect is capitulation. “Please…what?”
“Please.” Her voice breaks and she gives me a look that breaks my heart. “Please leave.”
The fight deserts me, and I straighten, stepping away from her. The worst thing is that she looks like she’s the one in pain, and even though my insides are tearing up, I have to take the blame for that too. I take a deep breath and motion for her to step away from the door. She does.
I want to say something, but I don’t even know what.
“I’m…” Words fail me. I have a sudden urge to laugh. “God! I’m sorry.” And I am. She was right. I should have left things after the first night we slept together. Pursuing her has only opened a new door of pain, one I’m not sure will go away soon.
When the door closes behind me, I tell myself it’s over and I’m done.
Because regardless of what I told myself before, that’s what she wants.
Chapter 20
I’m in a bad mood when I pick Aidan up on the way to the Remington House, a private art gallery on Fifth Avenue that houses the impressive Remington collection. Today, I’m donating—or returning—two paintings my grandfather famously won from Shelby Remington in a bet.
Aidan is excited about an innovative set design and spends the drive describing technical aspects of scene changes while I answer in monosyllables.
Please leave.
I’ve decided to stop thinking about Rachel. At the Remington House, an old Beaux-Arts mansion, the director meets us at the entrance, and Aidan goes ahead to the ballroom where the event is taking place.
“We here at the Remington collection deeply appreciate what you’re doing tonight,” the director says effusively. He’s a plump, balding man who looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than hosting a glamorous art event.
Donating a few works of art worth a couple million dollars is not a big deal to me considering I have no sentimental attachment to the paintings, but I do my best to be gracious. “Supporting the arts is our collective responsibility, isn’t it?”
He grins. “Exactly!”
He’s passionate about the collection and starts wearing my ears off about plans for future expansions while I study the program idly. Lynn Foster’s name jumps out at me from the list of speakers. Rachel’s mom. I look toward the door to the ballroom, wondering if, by any chance, Rachel will be here.
And what if she is?
She has made it abundantly clear that she wants nothing to do with me, and I’ve accepted that.
No matter how much it kills me inside.