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Chloe had been stuck at the house after he’d told her their affair was over. He hadn’t noticed the snow piling up until she’d mentioned it, after he’d informed her he was taking her home.
“Perhaps you should mention it to him,” Lyrica suggested. “Then he might take me seriously.”
“Hmm, I’d be opposed to warning him first if that’s what you intended to do,” he pointed out. The thought of tasting her again, feeling the tight warmth, and tasting the flow of sweet heat as his tongue rimmed the snug entrance had him a little distracted.
“You’d be opposed to warning him first?” The low, furious tone of her voice nearly had him grinning.
“Yeah, I would be,” he admitted. “He or Natches would feel the need to hit me. They still pack a mean punch, sweetheart. I’d at least like to experience what I’m getting my ass kicked for first.”
Like hell. There were nights—hell, every night after he lay down in bed—that he would gladly take an ass whipping for one more taste of her. Thankfully, he was stronger before and after those moments.
“I’m going to kick your ass for being a moron,” she stated, eyes narrowed, the emerald green almost neon as she glowered at him.
“Hmm, think that’s how it’ll go, do you?”
He didn’t agree.
Graham flicked another glance at her. That blouse she wore dipped low over the soft rise of her breasts before meeting to buttons between them. He could have it unbuttoned in a second or two, he guessed.
He could have one of those sweet nipples in his mouth again, his tongue licking over the hard little tip, each stroke, each tug of his mouth making her burn hotter . . .
“Where are we going, Graham? Because if you’re actually taking me to your house, I really will slip those dogs in on you.”
She would be too damned busy lying beneath him as he slipped into her, he thought.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked, ignoring the threat.
“My apartment, Graham. Are you having trouble hearing tonight?”
He was having trouble keeping his mind out of her pants, and that was damned dangerous territory.
He didn’t answer the question, but increased the pressure on the accelerator of the Viper instead. He had to get her to that damned apartment. He could remember, think, and fantasize all he wanted, but he knew the hazards of actually taking what he wanted.
“Address,” he growled.
Since when did Dawg Mackay allow his sisters to move out on their own? That was damned dangerous. They were, after all, Mackays.
Lyrica gave him her address, watching him closely as she named the apartment complex the Mackay cousins had bought six months before. That explained it. She may have felt like she was on her own, but she was still beneath their eagle eye. At least, Graham was certain that was what Dawg told himself.
After giving him the address, she sat back in her seat, silent then. Graham kept waiting for another smart-ass comment or question, feeling like the anticipation of it would likely have him breaking a sweat soon.
“Why did you do that during the snowstorm?” Her voice was soft, the hint of vulnerability in it digging sharp claws into both his conscience as well as his temper.
He should have been prepared for the question.
Telling her he’d been helpless against the hunger that rose inside him wasn’t the wisest course of action, and he damned sure wasn’t going to take it.
“Is that why you’ve stopped coming to the house?” he asked rather than answering her. “Because of what happened?”
He glanced at her, aware of the steady look she had leveled on him, that quick little mind of hers working, gauging his response, his honesty.
Damn her. Damn her. She reminded him far too much of what he wanted only to forget.
“Answer me first.” There was a note of hurt in her tone, one that suggested she knew he was trying to avoid the question and was coming up with her own reasons for that.
Rubbing at the back of his neck for a second, Graham kept his expression clear, with no hint of a reaction. What the hell was he supposed to say anyway?
“What does it matter?” he finally asked her. “It was regrettable. I never should have touched you.”
