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I should have been able to apologize to Creed, then walk away, my conscience clear, my indecent proposal no longer hanging over us like a cloud.
But that’s not what happened at all. If anything, the way he simply stared at me with those soulful eyes only made things worse.
Made me want him more.
Made the ache even worse.
Pushing out a long sigh, I lean against the door, needing to feel grounded when my unease threatens to overwhelm me, making it difficult to breathe. But instead of giving in to my anxiety, I run through the coping mechanisms my therapist taught me years ago, starting with listing five things I see around me.
The moon shining through the large windows overlooking the courtyard. A bookcase holding all my favorite books. A photo of my mother and me riding horses on the table beside the couch. A half-drunk glass of wine I’d consumed before this evening’s gala abandoned on the coffee table. And the ridiculously expensive shoes I’d kicked off the second I arrived home.
Four things I can touch. The cotton material of my tank top. A few strands of blonde hair that had escaped my messy bun. The wood grain of the door at my back. The smoothness of the wallpaper beside it.
Three things I can hear. My steady breathing. The whirring of the air conditioning. And a subtle knock on my door.
I stiffen, whirling around to stare at it. I don’t even have to look through the peephole to know who stands on the other side. I feel his presence.
I always can.
Bringing my hand up to the doorknob, I slowly turn, words escaping when I’m met with Creed’s intense stare.
Before I can form a single thought, he advances on me, pushing me into my apartment and kicking the door closed behind him. Rough hands cup my cheeks, my breath catching, heat prickling my skin as his eyes search mine for what feels like an eternity.
Then he presses his lips to mine, soft and invigorating.
I still, unsure how I’m supposed to react, especially after everything I just said to him. I didn’t expect him to knock on my door and kiss me like this. But I can’t ignore the fact that the warmth of his mouth on mine jumpstarts my heart, making me feel alive for the first time in years.
Probably since the last time his mouth was pressed so tenderly against mine.
Despite knowing how wrong this is, I part my lips, moaning when he slides his tongue against mine, kissing me with more fever. More passion. More need. The raw need pouring from his kiss is enough to light me on fire.
To set me ablaze and incinerate every last part of me.
He moves a hand from my face, gripping my hip as he walks me backward until I hit the wall. When he presses his body against mine, I whimper at the feel of his hard length.
He tears his lips from mine, both of us panting as we stare at each other. I half expect him to snap out of whatever trance led him to knock on my door. Instead, his eyes remain locked on me, powerful and desperate.
“I fucked up,” he declares, voice unwavering.
“About?”
“That day in the stables. I gave you the response I felt obligated to give. Not the one I wanted to give.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard, butterflies flapping their relentless wings in my stomach.
“I thought I was doing the right thing. But there’s nothing right about you being forced to marry that guy. About the royal household essentially deciding who gets to be your first.” He brings his hand back to my cheek, his touch gentle. “I want that to be me,” he whispers, lips slowly descending toward mine.
But before I allow myself to fall victim to his kiss yet again, I place a finger over his mouth, stopping him. “I’m not looking for a pity fuck, Creed. If I wanted to have sex with someone who only wants to because they feel bad, I would have just let Jameson sleep with me.”
His spine stiffens, jaw ticking, eyes flaming. “Has he tried anything with you? Has he done anything you didn’t want?”
The anger in his voice sends a thrill through me. It shouldn’t. I’m a strong, independent woman.
At least I try to be as independent as possible. As independent as the royal household will allow me to be.
But the protectiveness in his words, in his need to make sure Jameson hasn’t harmed me, causes my pulse to increase even more, a need I didn’t realize I had being satisfied.
“Jameson hasn’t done anything wrong. While it’s obvious he wants to sleep together, and I know I’ll eventually have to, that’s not at issue. What is at issue is that I want you to sleep with me because you want to. Not because you feel bad for me. If that’s the only reason you’re here, you—”
