The corner of my mouth twitches. “We’re still fine, Othello.”
“No, we’re not. You don’t look at me like you used to anymore. You’re looking at me like you’re scared. I can see the disappointment in your eyes.”
“I’m not disappointed in you.” But when I say it, I can’t even meet his gaze. My eyes are on my fingers, which are fiddling with the key card. We’re still in the long, dimly lit hallway of the resort, the air thick with everything I can’t say.
“I don’t believe that,” Othello tells me. “Why can’t you look at me?”
Because I’m afraid of falling for you. These feelings I’ve been feeling are way too strong, way too early. But I don’t tell him that. I don’t know how or where to even start.
“Say something,” he tells me. “Marley, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Okay, you’re right,” I finally admit. “I’m scared. I’m giving in to you, and that terrifies me. And I’m afraid of how much I might want you if I stop holding myself back.”
“Trust me, this scares me too.”
“So what are we going to do?” I ask, my voice weak and low.
“That depends. Are we still putting on a show, or is this the part where we stop pretending?” he asks, his lips hovering close to mine. He moves his hand smoothly around my lower waist and pulls me closer as if we aren’t already close enough.
“Answer me,” he demands.
My breath catches. “Fine,” I say, swallowing my pride. “No more pretending.”
The way he looks at me has me locked in. I can’t tear my eyes away. The world could be crumbling down around us, and I wouldn’t know it, nor would I care. All I care about is this. Nothing else matters butthismoment.
Before another thought can slip through my mind, Othello parts my lips with his tongue. I moan, feeling like a woman starved, and he takes it, swallowing my feeble sound like it belongs to him.
My panties are a soggy mess.
The kiss is slow, sensual, and unhurried, like he’s trying to kiss away every wall I’ve built and every reason I gave myself not to want this.
Not to want him.
And I feel it. Vibrating through every fiber of my being.
My body starts to rationalize what this will be. And I know now in this moment that there is no turning back. Not even if I wanted to. No more lying to myself.
I want him. The throb between my legs wants him. My heart wants him.
Othello pries the keycard from my grip and opens the door behind my back. His lips never leave mine as I walk backward over the threshold, pulling him inside with me. Mouth to mouth. One hand moving through his thick coils, and the other gripping the back of his neck. I hear the door close behind us, and inone swift motion, Othello has me off my feet, hooking my legs around his waist.
He doesn’t turn on a single light in the suite yet somehow finds his way to the bedroom like he’s done it a hundred times before. I wait for him to lay me across the bed and cover me with his body, but he keeps me wrapped around him. His lips break away from mine. I search his eyes, my heart stuttering, my mind confused.
“What is it?” I ask, reading his conflicted expression.
“Just want to make sure this is what you want.”
I let out a sharp breath, clutching him tighter and give him a look that should say it all.
Of course, I’m sure.
“It’s just…” he starts. “It feels like I’ve been crossing lines you don’t want me to cross. I don’t want what happens next to be something you regret.”
“I won’t regret this.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
