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“You know everything that matters.”
“Or everything that doesn’t,” I counter.
She sighs. Looks away. Fiddles with the pages of her book. “Were you named after the sport?”
I blink.What?Scarlett stares at me. I raise a brow. “That’s what you want to know about me?”
Scarlett takes another sip from her wineglass. “Answer the question.”
“No, it’s a family name.” I shift so I’m facing her, not the pool. “Were you named after the color?”
The amusement is brief, but it appears. “My mother was a Margaret Mitchell fan.” She flips over the book beside me, revealing the faded cover ofGone With The Wind.
“So you were named after a tease hopelessly in love with a guy who married his cousin?”
She narrows her eyes, but not before I see she’s surprised I’ve read the book. “Scarlett is strong. She’s a survivor. She saves herself over and over again, never accepting defeat or relying on a savior.”
“It suits you.”
Her pink-tipped nails tap the edge of the crystal she’s holding. She sucks on her bottom lip, and I imagine doing the same. “I don’t want you to move out.” Color rises in her cheeks, but she holds my gaze.
“Scarlett…”
“I’ll try, okay? I’ll try.”
“It wasn’t an ultimatum,” I say softly.
“Good.”
She abandons her spot on the chair, crawling into my lap and shocking me into stillness. She settles directly on my crotch. Just like that, I’m uncomfortably hard.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” I choke out.
She looks down at my red, swollen knuckles. “For that.”
“I’ve wanted to punch Camden for years. Guy’s an ass,” I lie. Camden Craneisan asshole. But I’ve never contemplated punching him until I overheard him speculating about what Scarlett is like in bed.
I can tell from her expression she knows the truth, but she doesn’t dispute it. “People will talk.”
“Let them.”
“Won’t your father be upset? He does business with Sebastian Crane.”
Upset? More like furious. “Contrary to whatsomepeople think, I don’t make my decisions based on my father.”
Rather than reply, she kisses me. She tastes like tart wine. Sour and sweet.Intoxicating.
The last time our lips touched, we were standing in a lobby with hundreds of people on the other side of the wall. I was wearing a tux, and she was wearing a white dress. Now it’s the middle of the night. There’s no one else around. She’s grinding on my lap, wearing a silk nightgown that barely covers her ass.
Heat surges through my veins. Sparks between us catch, burning with intention. With want and need and other consuming emotions that wash away rational thought.
I don’t usually pay much attention to kissing. It’s a courtesy, a stop on the way to the final destination. Sprinkled between desperate touches and tearing clothes off. But with Scarlett, I savor it. Maybe because it’s been a month since her lips were on mine. Kissing her feels like a gift—a privilege.
Just like with everything else, she challenges me. Her teeth scrape my lower lip and I can’t contain the groan that spills out. I feel her smile, even though her face is too close to see it.
I’m close to coming from this alone—her taste, her hands in my hair, the friction between our bodies. When her right hand slips out of my hair and slides down to my waistband, I curse my lack of planning. These shorts don’t have pockets. I grab her wrist before she journeys down far enough I won’t be able to think straight. Blood is already rushing south. There’s no way she’s oblivious to how hard I am.
