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“Please.”
This one word had unstitched him. Not because she’d wanted him. Because she had wanted him only when he was pretending to be his brother.
Breaking the kiss, Samuel had drawn back, panting.
For a strange measure of time, he was neither anchored in the past or present, but some muddy fusion of both.
Same sensations.
Different time.
He was back on the deck of the Dolce Vita, Arlie Banks in his arms, her eyes wide and her lips swollen and glistening. The hem of her silky dress was drawn up to her waist and his hand was beneath it, coated with the slick warmth of her desire.
His own mouth stung, blood throbbing in his veins, a painful ache in his cock.
What had he done?
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling himself abruptly away from her. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“All this time.” She blinked up at him, eyes dark, pupils dilated with desire as if she had plucked his memories from the very air. “I knew it was you.”
