“You kissed me!”
“You kissed me back.” He came so close his nose practically touched hers, to test if she’d back away. To see if the reminder of all he was—of all he wasn’t—would scare her for good. She only moved enough to elevate her proud chin.
“So?”
“So?” he repeated, backing up to focus on her face. “Did you forget for a second I had a handicap? Is that why you kissed me back?”
“By handicap, I assume you mean your horrible attitude.” She held his eyes with hers. “And don’t do that teeth-sucking thing just because you’re pissed.”
“The what?”
“It’s your tic when you don’t know what to say.”
His tongue was pressed to the back of his front teeth, poised to do just that. He wedged his jaw tight and Isa hoisted a triumphant eyebrow.
“You don’t want me to date Zach because you want me for yourself. Is that it?”
Because she was right and he didn’t want to admit it, he chuffed a dry laugh and looked to the windows. “Yeah, right.”
She lifted her hand to his cheek. Her soft touch, her smell…there wasn’t a thing about Isabella Sawyer he didn’t want. He wanted her lips on his, her hands on him, her truncated sounds of steep pleasure saturating the air after an all-day marathon between the sheets.
He wanted to be the man to put a smile on her face, hear that moan of pleasure coming from her throat like when he kissed her a moment ago.
There was one piece of equipment standing between him and taking Isa to heaven and back again. The leg. Isa, with her to-die-for perfect body…God. He felt his shoulders wilt, his anger fade into a muted sadness.
What in the hell had he been thinking? The Eli he’d been looking for was gone. The only one left standing was in front of Isa, whose shirt gaped because he’d cut the buttons off it. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“I overstepped a boundary. It won’t happen again.” He lifted his hand and placed it over hers on his cheek. As much as he wanted to turn his face, kiss her palm, and enjoy her comfort, he resisted and brushed her aside instead. “I’ll replace your shirt.”
“You’ll replace my shirt,” she repeated, her tone flat.
“Yeah.” He walked away and this time she let him. He went to his office, determined to wrestle back two things he had no right to have: the burgeoning erection pressing his fly and an image of naked Isabella in his bed, legs spread, his face buried between her shapely thighs.
Jesus, that sounded fantastic.
“You can leave,” he called through a throat thick with lust. He wouldn’t ask her to compromise. Isa should never be asked to compromise.