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It must be morning, but it is still dark and cloudy as the gentle sound of drizzle hits the window. I open my eyes, almost breathless with regret.
The bed is empty. His pillow is cool. He must be feeling the same way. I imagine him downstairs, pacing in the kitchen, waiting for me to say we’ve made a mistake. That it can never happen again.
Probably even has the car waiting to take me home. His eyes won’t meet mine. I’m positive.
A nauseous shame engulfs me, making it impossible to swallow as I pick up my crumpled sundress and put it back on. I don’t even have any clean panties—I hadn’t planned to spend the night and yesterday’s pair are in no shape to be worn again. I pick them up from the carpet, feeling the stiffness with my dried desire.
I make my way down the long upstairs hallway, the worst walk of shame imaginable. But downstairs, I find only silence, the kitchen is empty, there’s not a sign of Trent anywhere.
Snaking my way through the labyrinth of the first floor, I poke my head into every perfectly-decorated room. The library. The home theater. The dining room. The workout room. But I find no sign of him.
“Trent?” I call out in the huge great room, my voice echoing.
Nothing. Just the sound of the refrigerator humming away.
I walk onto the long terrace that overlooks the lake, partly protected by the overhang of the second floor. “Trent? Are you out here?”
“Right here, Kitty Kat.”
I startle as I spin toward his voice.
He’s ascending the stone stairway from under the terrace, his body dripping wet—glistening and hard—wearing only his camo pants.
The drizzle falls onto his muscles and tattoos, making him look shiny and polished. The white bandages still in place.
I swallow hard, trying to keep my eyes on his face.
But his fatigues hang low on his hips. He’s wearing no belt and obviously doesn’t have anything on underneath. That amazing indent of his V-shaped muscles makes me swallow hard again, my skin hot, my face flush, as I deliberately focus on his eyes.
God, how I love his eyes.
He walks right over to where I stand under the dry safety of the terrace roof. He snakes a hand around the back of my neck, squeezing.
I battle against the moan but lose as he steals my breath away. Quite literally. Surely this is all still a dream. Surely.Surely.
“Morning.” His deep voice rumbles as the muscle in his jaw flexes and he runs his other hand over his naked chest. The stark white of the bandages and tape remind me of the horrors he’s endured.
“Morning,” I manage to whisper back. I don’t know how to say what needs to be said. No idea at all. The only way to do it is rip the Band-aid off. 3-2-1,go.“Yesterday was a mistake. I know that. I—”
His eyes flash with anger, with danger. All the air disappears and my throat goes dry, sucking the rest of what I was going to say down into the abyss.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” His grip tightens on my neck. Powerful enough to remind me he may have killed men with his bare hands.
I freeze. Breathless. Shocked. Like a deer in headlights.
He kisses me,hard, clutching the front of my throat now, his tongue pressing into my mouth until my body melts into his.
When the kiss breaks, I’m left gasping. “No bullshit, Kitty Kat. No pretense. Do you really think it was a fucking mistake?”
His blue eyes dart from my mouth to my eyes, then back, searching for my answer.
I count to three. To take a moment.It had to be a mistake. It had to be.But his grip is tight on my windpipe, making it hard to take a full breath. Making it hard to think about anything other than his raw, masculine power.
Instinct overtakes me. Desire knocks down my morality. “No,” I gasp, the word stomping out all logic, as the heat from his body flows over me.
“Good.”
I swallow against his palm. “Is it?”
