I try to push him away again, harder this time, but he doesn’t move. “I don’t want to talk about the engagement. It’s done. You could have married me. You had the chance. Instead you fought tooth and nail against it. I don’t believe your feelings have changed.”
He flattens his hand over mine, ensuring my palm stays on his chest. “You have one part correct. I fought to make a choice of my own volition, yes, and I won’t apologize for that. But you were never the issue. My feelings haven’t changed one bit. I always wanted you.”
I let out a short, caustic laugh. “Oh, is that right? Is that why you went around town dating other women these last few months? To prove how much you wanted me?”
“I never dated anyone.”
His nonchalant tone enrages me even more.
I lean in, spitting angry. “Don’t lie to me. I sat and listened to the gossip day after day. The rumors only grew worse. You and some breathtaking blonde at a bar, at a museum, at dinner. You wanted me so badly…” I laugh like I find it absolutely absurd.
“Fuck the rumors. I admit I was attempting to toy with my father, buck his control whichever way I could, but I’d like you to listen when I say, I was never dating anyone. I haven’t slept with anyone—haven’t even kissed anyone, in fact—in months. Though…that doesn’t include a certain night in Italy. Do you recall?”
His taunt nearly makes me see red.
“We’re not talking about Italy.”
“No, why would we? You let me crawl up on top of you and cage you in against those wooden boards. Your pouty lips were so willing to part for me.”
I hate that my stomach swoops with the headiness of his words.
“You told me you would never marry. Said you don’t believe in it.”
“Yes, and then…you.”
He says it so swiftly, like his mind has been made up for decades.
Me.
The gravity of his declaration makes my head spin.
He doesn’t give me time to recover before he continues, “You told me a truth the other night about your infatuation with me, so I’ll do the same. I find you intoxicating, beautiful…addicting. I was intrigued by you when you were a child, though now, the feeling is less wholesome, you see. I find I’d very much like to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” My voice sounds pleading rather than stern, and I hate myself for it.
“You’re already blushing.”
“Because I can imagine where your sick head is going.”
His gaze takes on a new desperation before he replies, “I am sick, Lainey.”
And with that he tips his head down to kiss me—once, quickly—making me rise up on my tiptoes, falling toward him as he breaks it off. He likes me having to beg. He does it again, a kiss softly pressed against my lips, a mere taste when what I need is never-ending indulgence, a ceaseless barrage.
My hand changes its agenda. I’m no longer pushing him away; I’m gripping the lapel of his jacket with every ounce of strength I have.
Impatience sparks inside me. I’m about to lift my head toward his again, but I barely manage to stop myself. I sway with indecision. There’s a withdrawn pause as our gazes meet. A silent, heavy question lingers in the air.
Continue or turn back?
I wet my bottom lip as I consider the surrender and all its conditions.
Overwhelmed, I lean into the crook of his neck, deeper into the shadows.
Pure impulse takes over, words tumbling out of me before I’ve even fully considered them.
“Show me what it would be like…” I whisper against his hard jaw, leaving off the ending of my plea.
To be yours.
It’s a minor acquiescence. I’m hardly admitting defeat. Rather, a ceasefire. I think we both need it. Exhaustion has a chokehold on me, and maybe if he just gives me a reprieve from this constant wanting, I’ll have the strength to consider the proper decision.
His head dips down and he places a string of kisses along my jaw, up toward my ear. “Come back to my house.”
“No.”
That much I can’t allow. That line cannot be crossed.
“We’re in the back of a bar. The curtain is only half-closed.”
He doesn’t sound like he’s against the idea of continuing what we’ve begun; he’s merely stating the facts, getting consent, I suppose.
I loosen my grip on his lapel and slide my hand up and around his neck, tugging him back down to me. I love the size difference between us, his coiled muscles beneath my hand a reminder of how outmatched I am in this moment.
It goes without saying that I’ve never done anything like this, and he knows that. He knows by pressing me further behind the drape, he’s lifting me up and out of the mediocre sameness of the life I’ve lived for so long.
Anyone could look in and see, at least that’s the idea. In reality, though, it’s not so easy. The club is dark, this corner darker still, and Emmett is concealing me, ensuring it’s his back they’ll see if someone peers in, not his mouth meeting mine, hunger starting to win out against common sense. Not his hands sliding up from my hips and over my breasts, toying with each peak, making me whimper. Not my hands fisting his shirt, drawing up the material with no real goal in mind except to sate my need to touch him.