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“Now wait a minute…”
“No, you wait. I won’t let you do this to me. Not again.”
“Do what exactly?” He looks puzzled. “We just had some coffee, that’s all.”
And there you have it. I’m so stupid.
My face grows hot, my eyes prickle worse than before. “See, you are an ass. I knew it.” Not going to cry. No way. Over this guy? Get real. I push my finger into the middle of his hard chest. “Screw you.”
“Quit jabbing at me.” He grabs my hand, eyes blazing. “What’s wrong with you?”
“With me?”
“Fuck this.” He grabs my wrist and drags me away from the gawping, tittering girls. “You and me, we need to talk.”
“Stop.” I shove at him. He drags me along, not seeming to notice. I scratch at his arm. He hisses. “I said stop.”
But he doesn’t.
“Where are we going? Let go.” I tug half-heartedly at his hold.
He pulls me between two buildings, pushes a door open and hauls me inside. I barely have the time to realize it’s a dusty storeroom when he pushes me against the wall. “Just tell me this. What the hell do you want?”
“Nothing you can give me, obviously.”
“Hey, will you stop talking in goddamn riddles—”
I jab harder at his chest, then splay my hand between his hard pecs, leaning closer, because God, he smells delicious. “You act all nice and then you never show up, never look for me—”
“After you pretended not to know me for months, and then again, and now you’re wearing a cat-T-Shirt again, what’s up with that—”
“Wait a minute.” What is he talking about? “Merc…”
“What?” His eyes are furious, but there’s a glint of pain in them, too, and that stops the next words that want out of my mouth. “What do you want from me?”
Why does he look hurt? He hurt me, and it wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t been crushing on him since the first time I saw him. His words make no sense. Why is he accusing me of ignoring him? What right does he have to be mad at me?
He’s gazing down at me, lips parted as if he, too, wants to say more but is hesitating. His hand is still wrapped around my wrist, big and strong, and the heat from his body is seeping into me even if there are a few inches between us.
But God, he smells like wood and dark liquor and man, with a hint of car oil and smoke. My body feels too hot, burning. I want to bury my nose in his neck and inhale.
“Damn,” he mutters, his fingers tightening around my wrist, jerking me closer.
Next thing I know, his mouth is on mine, scorching hot and demanding. Oh yes, I think as he shoves me up against the wall, pressing his full length to mine, deepening the kiss, his tongue demanding entrance. He stretches my hand over my head, puts the other under my leg, lifting it, wrapping it around his muscular thigh.
Making me fully aware of how tall he is, how strong, how masculine and different from me. Beautiful. How square his jaw. How soft his mouth.
How hard his cock pressing into my stomach.
He’s hard for me, I think, moaning in his mouth, overwhelmed by the realization, the sensations, the crazy feeling of finally kissing him, touching him.
He tastes even better than he smells, of dark chocolate and bourbon, addictive and mouthwatering—and I kiss him back hungrily, licking at his mouth, throwing my arms around his neck.
Giving in to desire.
A shudder goes through him, I feel it through every inch of my body.
With a groan, he lets go of my wrist to grab my ass and lift me up. The knobs of my spine scrape against the rough plaster. Instinctively I curl both my legs around his lean hips for balance.
