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EMPTY THE TANKS!
ORCAS ARE DYING TO ENTERTAIN YOU!
Maggie is in the middle of a passionate speech: “They can’t claim they’re capturing these animals and breeding them in glorified swimming pools for educational purposes, not anymore. That notion is absolutely ridiculous. Did you know that in the wild, orcas usually swim over a hundred miles in one day?!”
James shakes his head with a thoughtful frown, unaware that I’m standing in the doorway, watching. “Wow. I didn’t know that.”
Maggie sits back on her heels and surveys her handiwork. “That’s why my friends and I are staging a protest. I can’t sit idly by any longer.”
“The signs look really good, Maggie,” I say, announcing my presence.
James’ attention sweeps to me and I meet his dark gaze. A timid smile spreads across his lips.
“Oh, well there’s your girl,” Maggie says, taking the paintbrush out of his hand. “I can take it from here. Thanks for your help. Glad to know you’re not just some suit.”
I tip back on my heels, nodding my head toward the stairs. He follows without a word and once we’re both in my room, I close the door and slowly turn back to face him. He’s near my bed, eclipsing everything around him as he tugs a hand through his hair. He’s nervous, an odd emotion to see on a man as self-assured as James.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he says with a frown.
I focus my attention just over his shoulder, appreciating the reprieve. I haven’t seen him this close in weeks, and maybe I forgot just how much he affects me. Now I certainly remember, and my heart is racing. My hands feel clammy, and if I were smart, I would have taken Ellie up on her offer for ice cream.
“Brooke?”
I chew on my bottom lip and look away. “Yeah, it was sort of a self-preservation thing.”
“So you weren’t ignoring me because you aren’t interested anymore?”
A chuckle tumbles out of me.
“Can you look at me?”
I swallow and glance down. “No, actually, I can’t.”
“Why?”
Because I’m crumbling. Because your face hurts—HURTS—to look at. Because I think you’re going to break my heart. Because there are a dozen solid reasons for why we should steer clear of one another, some of which you’ve already admitted yourself.
I settle on giving him the reason that bothers me the most.
“Because you’re seeing someone else, and you shouldn’t be here.”
“Seeing someone else?” he says, his tone hard and unyielding. “What are you talking about?”
My focus is on my shoes, but he steps forward and captures my chin, raising it gently until I’m forced to meet his eyes. Desire ripples through me.
“Lacy Nichols.”
“Was a friend who invited me to a fundraiser.”
“Nothing else?”
He takes another step toward me. I step back and my heels hit my bedroom door. There’s nowhere to go, no way to escape the fact that James is crushing me against the door with his body, not enough to hurt me, but enough to make my breathing erratic. My chest brushes against his and my heart leaps as if trying to reach him. His hand still holds my chin, and slowly he tips it up, up, so when his head bends and he captures my mouth, our lips are perfectly in sync.
The kiss is so unexpected that at first, I freeze from the initial shock of contact. For seconds, I don’t do much more than stand there. He increases the pressure and slips his hand from my chin to the nape of my neck. His fingers stroke and soothe, making it too easy to give in to him. I tilt my head and my hands find his waist. I grip the bottom of his shirt and tug him closer until our hips meet. His hard thigh presses against mine. He shifts us closer to the door, and a heavy need starts to build between us. My lungs don’t have room to inflate as he continues to kiss me endlessly, teasing and coaxing out soft moans.
By the time his hand starts to slide up from my waist, my body is a mess of sensations. He skims along my ribs and then brushes his fingers just below my breast, testing the limits. When I don’t protest, his hand moves higher until he’s cupping it in his palm, rolling his hand back and forth. His kiss is nearly punishing, but his touch is so gentle I want to melt.
He’s playing a game with me, seeing how long I can endure the sweet torture before I break down and openly beg him for more. A fire is building within me, burning hotter by the second. Soon he’ll get exactly what he wants. I’ll have turned to putty in his hands.
I grip his shirt tighter and our hips grind together as if the friction will help dispel some of the pressure mounting between us.
