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Knowledge arched between them. Dark, driven and unstoppable. And she knew no force on earth would be able to stop her from giving into the need pounding hard enough to hurt in her sex.
‘I know,’ she said, her gaze fixed on his as his fingers curled around her upper arm and he drew her against naked flesh.
‘I stayed away from you, dammit,’ he growled, bending to press his face into her hair and skim his lips under her ear. ‘Precisely so this wouldn’t happen.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, because she could hear the edge of anger, although she wasn’t sure what she was apologising for.
Her pulse battered her neck with the force and fury of a jackhammer.
He wanted her too. She hadn’t imagined it.
Taking a deep breath in, he nuzzled the sensitive flesh beneath her chin, then finally found his way to her mouth.
She opened for him on a gasp of need, her legs giving way as his tongue explored and exploited, capturing her sobs. The hard length pressed against her belly, growing thicker and longer while the kiss became carnal and possessive.
Callused hands cradled her cheeks as he lifted his head, her panting breaths matched by the rasps of his. Those dark eyes searched her face, the intensity searing her skin and making the heat between her thighs go molten.
‘Why did you come?’ he asked.
She wanted to tell him she’d come for Nico. But in that moment the longing inside her was so huge it obliterated everything else. So she told him the truth. Or at least the part of the truth that couldn’t hurt her.
‘Because I want to make love to you.’
I want you to show me how. I want you to be my first.
As the thought entered her consciousness, she convinced herself that was all this was.
He choked out a harsh laugh, touched his forehead to hers, his hands roaming down to capture her backside and drag her more firmly against the thick bulge under his towel.
‘I don’t make love, Bronte. If that’s what you want, you’re looking in the wrong place.’ The words were filled with a brittle conviction that made complete sense to her in that moment. This yearning for him wasn’t emotional—it was physical. It was about finally giving in to the insane sexual chemistry which had been there from the first moment he’d touched her.
‘It’s just an expression,’ she murmured, letting her hands flatten against the warm skin of his abdomen. The muscles bunched and shuddered as she explored the firm flesh.
The surge of power was sweet and unprecedented, sweeping away the last of her fears and insecurities. Why couldn’t she have this? Why did it have to mean anything?
Snagging her wrist, he headed towards the bedroom suite. He shut the door behind them and leaned back against it as she stood in the centre of the room.
He folded his arms over that magnificent chest. ‘Prove it.’
‘Prove what?’ she said as she wrapped her arms around herself, the insecurities flooding back. Could he see how inexperienced she was, how unsure?
His head ducked, taking in her clothing. ‘Show me this is what you want. Show me it’s just sex,’ he murmured, his voice so rough it felt like sandpaper scraping over every inch of exposed skin. ‘Take off your clothes for me, Bronte.’
A violent tremble racked her body at the demand. She’d never undressed in front of any man before. But with the apprehension came the insistent well of desire. And she forced herself to unlock her arms, to stand proud.
He was challenging her, deliberately trying to frighten her off. Trying to take the power back that she’d seized moments before—trying to control her and the hunger between them. Her gaze fixed on the huge bulge, the towel now tented at an obscene angle.
His need was something he couldn’t disguise. She forced herself to fix on that, and the clenching in her sex, the visceral desire to feel that powerful length inside her and not the fear demolishing her confidence.
She squeezed her trembling fingers into fists and shrugged off her jacket. Gripping the hem of her T-shirt, she dragged the cotton over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her skin tightened, the whisper of sensation becoming a roar as her breasts swelled and throbbed, the tips now painfully erect.
‘Don’t you dare stop,’ he said, the demand edged with desperation.
So what if he’d dated supermodels? He was focused on her now. That intense gaze raked over sensitive flesh, the fight for control he was waging making her feel invincible.
Her muddy jeans and boots and the white sports bra probably wasn’t the most seductive outfit, but his husky groan of encouragement spurred her on.
She fumbled with the buttons on her jeans and inched them down her hips. But as the denim snagged on her knees she realised too late she still had her boots on.
