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Jeez, what am I letting myself think, exactly?
I’m all that exists for him. Nobody else matters.
That’s all in my head, rising from the childhood crush I’ve held onto for far too long.
But maybe the anger is real. Maybe he really is pissed at me for not reading whatever hint he’s trying to give me.
People do that sometimes, don’t they? They say they want to help, they want to be there for you, but really they’re doing it out of politeness.
Maybe he really wants me to say something like, No, honestly, I don’t want you to go through all that trouble.
And then that will give him an excuse to send me on my way without having to spend his valuable time on a no-name author.
“Maddie?” he snarls, his voice trembling.
“Sorry.” I giggle, shaking my head, as though I can push away the thoughts, sending them to some distant corner of my mind. “I’m always doing that. I was in Thought City.”
I cringe at the dorky – and, let’s face it, cringe-worthy – phrase.
Thought City.
Madden really is making it difficult to think.
Well… think about anything except for his throbbing muscles, his steel hair, the devilish look in his eyes.
“It’s fine,” he says.
I wish I could believe him, but his gruff growling voice tells me otherwise.
“I want to talk about your approach to writing,” he says. “Do you plan out your books? Or do you just write and see where the story takes you?”
“I guess I just write and see where the story takes me,” I murmur. “Which might have something to do with why I haven’t finished a full novel yet. I always get a few thousand words in and then abandon it. At least, I did. But for this latest one – the fantasy – I’m around thirty thousand words in. I feel like I’m maybe a quarter or a fifth of the way in. But it’s difficult to know since I don’t work from a plan.”
He stares, causing tingles to prick my skin, to dance up and down my spine. Everything feels like it’s burning, scorching, and I can’t freaking take it.
My mouth moves without my brain’s say-so.
“I guess it’s easier for you.”
He’s still staring, his gaze biting hotly into me, causing countless sensations to swarm through me.
Prodding, purring, teasing.
“You know,” I add, feeling like I’m on autopilot. “With what happened to you when you were a kid. When you got lost at sea. I guess it’s easier to be a writer when you have that sort of inspiration.”
I want to snatch the words right back as soon as they’re out of my mouth, to turn back time and make it so I never said them.
I’ve just called his parents’ deaths a good thing, basically, rubbed it in his face.
And he just keeps staring at me.
Chapter Eight
Madden
Every second is an exercise in willpower, as every inch of my body aches and tears itself to primal pieces trying to resist my woman. It’s that way she has of smiling at me, all shaky, like part of her, is shy for letting that glorious beautiful smile free.
It’s the way she has of drifting off into space, that stargazing look on her face as her eyes grow hazy and she sinks into her private world. It’s the shape of her body, the curvy gorgeous shape, simply made for carrying my children into this world.
I knew she’d be perfect in the flesh.
But I’m also aware I may be coming across like a lunatic, the tension working its way through my jaw, my whole body.
Every muscle is tight, taut, and ready to take her.
Everything inside of me is roaring at me to throw myself across the table and crush my body against hers, to pry her mouth open with my tongue and go to war with hers, to kiss her until her shy mouth starts to match my intensity, my speed until she’s whimpering through the kiss.
I can’t behave normally, like a civilized man, when my woman is making me feel like such a beast.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her mouth falling open.
I’ve been so obsessed with staring at her – with imagining her bent over, that plump ass bouncing for me – it takes me a second to realize why she’s apologizing.
Oh, yeah.
Her comment about my parents.
“Maddie,” I say, my voice beyond firm, iron in my tone. “You don’t have to apologize to me...And you’re right. What happened to me when I was a kid did make writing my first book easier. Hell, it’s not called The Ugly Sea for nothing.”
“I know,” she murmurs, gaze flitting to me and then away. “But it still doesn’t mean I should rub it in your face.”
I almost reach across the table and grab her right there, haul her to her feet and onto my lap.
There’s so much kindness and compassion in her voice, so much need to make sure she hasn’t upset me. My length gives an urgent pulse, telling me this is just another sign she’s going to make an incredible mother.
