She shook her head, wondering how he could look disappointed as well as flummoxed when he’d been midway through lecturing her on how they could never be. She knew that well enough on her own. The last thing she needed was to hear him state it in black and white.
He raked his fingers through his hair and blew out a breath. ‘Of course. Sorry, I just assumed.’
‘Well, you can take your assumption and shove it where—’ She pursed her lips tight, her eyes wide in horror at her own outburst. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lost it quite so badly, but then she couldn’t remember ever being as embarrassed as she was right now. ‘Just because you’re used to women willing to hop into bed with you doesn’t mean you can count me amongst them.’
Well...he could but he would never know that.
‘Is that really what you think?’
‘It’s not what I think; it’s what I know. I’m not about to follow suit.’
‘I wasn’t referring to your lack of desire for me.’
Oh, God, even the word desire from his lips had the heat pooling in her lower belly. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. ‘No?’
‘No, I was referring to the fact you think women in general are—how did you phrase it?—willing to hop into bed with me?’
She could feel her cheeks re-colouring, the warmth whipping through her limbs. This was dangerous territory and so far from the conversation she actually wanted to have.
‘If that truly is what you think...’ he murmured, low, teasing, his eyes probing hers and reading far too much; he was too near, his body still too close despite the distance she had created ‘... I find it interesting that you declare yourself...immune.’
Immune!
She was so far from immune it was laughable. And now wasn’t the time to laugh. Now was the time to run. But not until she’d spoken to him about Lily.
‘So...are you, Sophia?’
‘Am I what?’ she said, breathless, unblinking, immobile.
‘Are you immune to me?’
* * *
Jack raked his eyes over her. From her over-bright eyes, drowned out by her pupils, the freed strands of her auburn hair framing her flushed cheeks, her lips parted with the denial she couldn’t quite utter. To her soft woollen jumper and denim-clad legs curled beneath her upon the sofa and hiding her fluffy-socked feet—socks he had bought her, a first—and never had he desired a woman more.
He didn’t need skimpy lingerie, fancy dresses, heels, or make-up. He simply needed her. Like this: honest, vulnerable, open. He was captivated. And it meant he should be ending this conversation, not encouraging it.
But could he let it go...?
‘Are you, Sophia?’ No, he couldn’t.
She wet her lips. ‘You can’t ask me that.’
Even her voice turned him on, her words emerging all breathy and heated.
‘I think it’s good to know where we stand.’
She wet her lips again and his restraint almost snapped. He wanted to taste those lips, wanted to hear her confess that she wanted him, that she wanted him like he did her.
‘It doesn’t matter whether I want you; in a week you will be gone and that will be that.’
‘Be that as it may, it doesn’t mean we have to deny it.’
Her eyes flared and his entire body tingled with the need to reach for her. To stroke her cheeks, feel their heat beneath his palms, feel that pulse point at her throat tick beneath his fingertips. He reached for his glass, desperate, needing to keep his hands busy, needing to take a second.
As he drank his wine she watched him, the air fizzing with the unspoken and all the things they could be doing. Her body was so still that if it wasn’t for the faint sound of her breathing, the movement of her chest, he’d think she’d turned to stone.
‘What are you saying, Jack?’