I look at his pants. Traces of my arousal are on his thigh, but there is another stain closer to his crotch.
And the emotional roller-coaster keeps running,because for some fucked-up reason, it makes me feel better. “Did you?”
“Come in my pants? Yes, Thunder.” His voice is dangerously low now. The still-wet spot between my legs throbs. “Now you see what you do to me. Your pussy is my kryptonite.”
There is sadness behind the statement. I don’t understand it.
I swallow. I lick my lips. I take a deep breath. I’m hyper-aware of all my micro-reactions, trying to distract my mind and body.
Because as much as I want to fight it on the rational level, the attraction refuses to rest.
“Jesus,” I mutter, because this man robbed me of my vocabulary, and my ability to quip.
His chest rises and falls. His jaw ticks. His Adam’s apple bobs.
He flexes his fingers. That’s something he does often, but I haven’t deciphered the tell yet.
Why am I really fighting this attraction?
What? That’s not even a question. But if he wasn’t trying to buy the stake in Merged? I can’t allow myself that fantasy. Nothing good would come of it.
But the possibility still digs its claws into my resolution, questioning everything. Making me forget that I need to focus on myself.
Here I am again, not able to have it all.
“I humped your leg.” I try to regain my composure, find my gumption. “It could have been any leg.”
“Is that so?” he snorts, calling me on my bullshit.
“Liam.” I sigh, not even sure what point I want to make.
He holds my gaze. I wish I could understand what’s going on behind those penetrating eyes.
I don’t know how to interpret it. It scares me. Like the safety I momentarily felt in his arms is slipping through my fingers too fast.
He looks at me as if he doesn’t know what to do with me, and it pains him. Like maybe he doesn’t want to accept my decision, but he’s forcing himself to.
There’s no anger in his eyes. Not even the usual stonewall boredom, either.
It’s something quieter.
Resignation? Want? A flicker of something that looks horribly like understanding?
It rattles me more than any aggression would. Men like Liam aren’t supposed to step back.
They push. Demand. Take.
But he sits there, jaw tight, shoulders tense, looking like he’s swallowing words he’d rather spit. Instead, he’s accepting my boundary.
How the hell am I supposed to interpret that?
“We can forget what happened.” He shrugs. “Ifyou want to deny yourself all the orgasms we could enjoy together, suit yourself.” There’s no smugness left. Just a tired softness that hits me low in the stomach.
He lifts my hand and brushes his lips over my knuckles, a gesture so gentle it knocks the air out of me. Before I can react, he lets go and turns to his window.
“Liam, even if…” I don’t want to voice the dangerous possibility. “We can’t… there is the no-fraternization policy…”
“I don’t care.” He keeps his gaze on the traffic, which has thickened since we approached downtown New York.
