He laughed without meaning to. God, he was a product of Yaya’s upbringing.
Her gaze skittered to his face, but then moved past him, no hint of recognition crossing her features. She returned her attention to the kitchen bench.
Curiosity sparked in his chest, and a sense of displeasure too. This was too reminiscent of how she’d been in the early days. Before. Before she’d opened up to him and told him about her husband. Before he’d opened up to her in a way that was different and new.
He didn’t like this change.
She sliced a tomato carefully – with the skill of someone who rarely cooked – each movement of the knife tentative and uncertain.
Without giving a moment to consider his actions, he crossed into the kitchen and came to stand behind her, his hands moving to her sides and past them, so he could take the tomato with one hand and the knife with the other. He kept his head low, his mouth brushing the flesh of her cheek so he felt her tremble in response.
“Like this, cara.”
He moved the knife easily through the tomato’s flesh, forming perfect round slices until it was done. Then, he replaced the knife on the chopping board, moving his hands to her hips instead. He was tempted to turn her around so that she was facing him, so that he could ask her why she was so quiet, but instead, he moved his hand higher, inching over her tummy so he felt her harsh intake of breath, then higher still to the underside of her breasts. Her ribcage moved sharply. He dropped his head, his lips nuzzling the flesh in the sweep of her neck as his fingers lifted to her breasts, his thumb brushing her nipple, a smile forming as he felt how taut they were, buds pressed against the lace of her bra and cotton of her shirt. She made a panting noise and his cock hardened, aching in his pants. He pressed his hips forward so she could feel the evidence of his desire, and just like the night in the salon he felt a rush of desire that made no sense, that demanded immediate action.
He murmured into her ear, words that made no sense, low and soft, but she shook her head, stiffening in his arms, her body restrained, cold. Frustration zipped through him. If he turned her and kissed her, he’d carry her into this fever with him. He knew she would respond as she had that night, as she always did. But a sixth sense was ringing through him, telling him to wait. To talk to her.
“You’re very quiet,” he murmured now, moving his hands back to her hips, keeping his mouth close to her cheek because he liked the way it felt to be nuzzled in the crook there.
“Yes.” He felt her swallow. He heard the coolness in her tone. Expelling a sigh, he eased her around to face him, needing to understand. She didn’t meet his eyes.
“Someone will see.”
“There’s no one around.”
She swallowed again. “There’s always someone around.”
That was true, lately. While they’d grown up with domestic staff at Villa Fortune, the added intrusion of medical staff meant the communal spaces of the house were often crowded.
Fighting his own instincts, he took a step backwards, putting some distance between them. His body responded, his gut pulling as if to force him back to her.
He ground his teeth together, forcing himself to concentrate. Something had changed between them. But what?
“You’re different.” It wasn’t the gentlest questioning technique but it was a start.
She angled her face away. Frustration gnawed at his gut. No, she wasn’t different, she was the same – the same as she’d been when he’d first arrived and she’d been determined to push him away. It had bothered him then but now that he’d seen another side of her – been intimate with her – it was driving him crazy.
At least she didn’t attempt to deny the change.
“What is it, Lauren?”
Her eyes swept shut a second and she shook her head. Some sixth sense told him she was struggling to find a way to express whatever was bothering her. Every instinct he possessed told him to wait. Silence encouraged speech. He stood there, his body radiating an inner-tension. His nerves stretched tighter and finally, she turned back to face him.
“I think we should stop what we’re doing.”
He stared at her, completely blind-sided. “What?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes anguished. “Yeah. I think it’s better if we just…go back to…not sleeping together.”
Cristo. He had definitely not expected that.
“Lauren,” he ran his fingers through his hair. “Let’s take this back a bit. Tell me what brought you to this conclusion.”
The fine column of her throat shifted as she swallowed. “It’s not one thing in particular, so much as realising my first instinct with us was right. It’s better not to…get involved.”
“Well, we are involved. That horse has bolted.”
Startled, she turned to face him. “We can’t.”