The banked sexual awareness between them flared like the catch of a match.
“That wasn’t—” she hurried to say.
“I know.” He sounded as though he was laughing at her, making her shoot a scowl his direction. “I’m not going to make another unwelcome pass, Melodie. No matter how much I want to.”
Which was a pass in itself, she noted drily, but managed to say, “Good.” Even though she was suddenly reluctant to accept that. Her mind was expanding with one ballooning thought. What would it be like now, when they’d set aside the misjudgments and animosity?
“I should go,” she said briskly. Before she lost her mind.
“I’ll walk you down.”
“You don’t have to.” She picked up her clutch and headed toward the door.
He pocketed his room key off the bar and followed her. “Better if we both reappear without looking flushed and disheveled.”
“Right.” Flushed. Disheveled. Skin damp and whole body tingling in the aftermath of orgasm. That would be bad. “Yes,” she affirmed. “You’re probably right.”
“Only probably? Don’t give me an opening, Melodie. I will take it,” he said.
They stood at the door, his hand on the latch, his white shirt and black jacket filling her vision.
“An opening for what?” She was playing dumb, not like her at all.
His mouth lifted at one corner, knowing. “I said I wouldn’t make an unwelcome pass,” he said, then touched her chin, gently forcing her to tilt up her face until she couldn’t avoid his eyes. “If this is not welcome, say so now.”
His touch was bringing her to life in ways she had thought were manifestations of an overactive imagination.
“I keep wondering—”
He covered her mouth and she knew. They were every bit as volatile as before. They stepped into the kiss with synchronicity, her arms going over his shoulders, his hands sliding to her lower back, pulling her hips into his. In heels she was eye level with his mouth, and they both moaned with pleasure at how perfectly they fit together.
The buzz sounded again from inside her purse.
They broke away.
She threw the clutch toward the sofa, missing. It hit the floor and slid while they stepped into tight contact again, lips meeting without hesitation or clumsiness. Her same distant thoughts of how and why penetrated, but she honestly didn’t care. He was the man who did this to her. She couldn’t turn away now that it had started. And there was no evidence of his trying to slow things down as his fingertips dug into her buttocks and he rotated to press her into the door.
Oh, the weight of him felt good!
Pushing into his thighs with her own, she incited where he was already hard.
He ground back, making a growling noise as he drew back just enough to smooth the fine hairs from her neck, then nipped and nibbled his way to her bare shoulder. The action was both tender and feral, as though he was asserting his dominance but with gentle care, demanding her capitulation in the exposure of her throat to him, rewarding her with caresses that trickled delicious fire through her whole body.
Threading fingers into his hair, she moaned his name, helpless to the onslaught of pleasure. Weak against the masculine power that didn’t need muscle to overwhelm her.
“Feel what you’re doing to me,” he said, lifting his head and dragging her hand to his neck. Beneath her palm his artery pulsed in hard, rapid pumps.
“Mine’s going to explode, too,” she said, drawing his hand to her chest, where her heart raced in such a rapid tattoo it alarmed her.
He slid his palm lower, cupping her breast, watching as he plumped the swell and circled the tip with his thumb, nipple tight and straining against silk.
Showers of delight glittered through her. She slid her hand to the back of his head and urged him to kiss her again.
He did, once, hard, then lifted his head. “I want to do it right.” He clasped her hand, drew it from his hair so he could kiss her wrist. “I want to take our time and do it because we make each other feel so damned good. Stay with me.”
It meant trusting him. Trusting that afterward he wouldn’t throw her out and ruin her life.
Her stupid purse hummed, making her look past his shoulder with an anguished noise. When she tried to step away from him, he resisted letting her go. For one long second his muscles locked in refusal. Then he sucked in a breath and stepped back, hands up with frustrated surrender, shoulders hitting the wall next to the door as he accepted her rejection with a stoic face and a knock of his head into the wall behind him.
Paris, she thought. And, Be nice.
Looking back at Roman, at the way he’d lowered his eyelids to hide his thoughts but couldn’t disguise the way his mouth had gone flat with dismay, she shrugged off doubts and skepticism. All she could think was I want him.