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She tilts her head. Her eyes gleam. Then she grips the edges of her camisole and pulls it up and off.
4
Solene
"The fuck are you doing?" he hisses. His voice is half shocked, half angry, but his gaze... His gaze is one-hundred percent lust-filled. I knew it would be, since the evidence of his arousal prodded me in that sensitive space between my legs last night. Or perhaps, even before that, when he came to my rescue on the beach, and I first glimpsed those vivid blue eyes of his eating me up like I was cotton candy, and he had a sweet tooth.
I’m still wearing my sleep-bra, but the way his gaze sears my flesh, the way my nipples tighten into pinpoints of want, the way my flesh seems to swell, I might as well be naked. Those blue eyes of his deepen to indigo, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he wants me.
"You want me; that’s why you came here to my room tonight." My words seem so loud in the silence. But I’m not going to take it back. “Admit it,” I whisper. I know what I saw. What I felt when I pressed myself against him and felt his hardness stab into the apex of my thighs. Thank god for smutty books! Which I’m not going to be able to read anymore, thanks to Ma searching my room and confiscating each and every one of them. On the other hand, maybe this is the time to try out everything I’ve learned from the novels. I push out my chest, so my breasts thrust up. I don’t need to look down to know my nipples are hard and pebbled, and oh, god, they’re throbbing for his touch.
His throat moves as he swallows. He stares at my boobs as if he’s entranced, then takes a step forward. I bring up my palms to cup them, and a groan spills from his mouth. It seems to shake him out of the stupor he’s fallen into, for he jerks his head up. A nerve pops at his temple. The muscles at his jaw flex with such intensity, it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a molar.
“Declan, I—”
“Don’t,” he snaps.
His voice is so harsh, I can’t stop the gasp that spills from my lips.
He glares at me for a few seconds longer. The expression on his face is angry and tortured and full of passion. So much passion and yearning and a fervency that I know I’ll remember for the rest of my life. My head spins. My heart jumps into my throat. Strange sensations gather in the bottom of my belly, but before I can say or do anything else, he wrenches his gaze off of me. He bends, snatches my camisole from the floor, and thrusts it at me. "Put this on." He turns his back.
"What the—? What are you doing?" I swallow.
"I’m trying to do the right thing, which, if you had half a brain, you’d recognize as being for your own good.”
My cheeks flame. I stare at his broad back, at how his shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt. He’s rolled up the sleeves, and when he raises his hand to rub the back of his neck, the veins in his forearms stand out in relief. That same melting sensation grips my lower belly. A heavy pulse beats between my legs. Oh, god, why is the sight of this man affecting me so? Worse, why is he rejecting me? Does he have a girlfriend? Someone older, more sophisticated, more experienced, perhaps? Is that why he doesn’t want me?
"Get out," I snap.
"Are you decent?"
"Fuck off."
"Cover yourself up, please," he says in a subdued, long-suffering voice. And now, I feel like the little girl he’s convinced I am.
I pull my camisole on, then for good measure grab my sweatshirt and shrug into it.
He must sense my movements, for he finally turns and stabs a finger in my direction. "Don’t go cavorting on the beach at 2 a.m. again."
"I will, if that’s what I want to do."
He sets his jaw. "You need a spanking, little girl."
My toes curl. A frisson of heat sizzles up my spine.No, no, no, I surely can’t think that is hot? What is wrong with me?I wrap my arms about my waist and glance away, hoping to mask the desire I’m sure is visible in my eyes. "Please leave."
The words fill the space between us. He stares at me for a second longer, then takes a step forward. So, do I.
"I really think you should go," I murmur without conviction.
He nods but makes no attempt to move. The air between us grows heavy. My breasts hurt, my thighs quiver, and I squeeze them together. He glances down at the movement and his breathing grows erratic. He folds his fingers into fists at his sides, then turns and stomps toward the window. That’s it. He’s going to leave, and I’ll never see him again. I’ll never know how it feels to run my fingers through his hair, to drag my knuckles against his whiskered jaw, to push my breasts into his chest, to feel that turgid length between his legs pushing into that delicate space between my legs, to kiss him… kiss him. KISS HIM.
"K-k-k-kiss me," I burst out.
He pauses at the window, his shoulders bunch, but he doesn’t turn.
"Please, just one last goodbye kiss. That’s all I’m asking for."
Every muscle in his body seems to tense, and the planes of his back flex under his shirt. My fingers tingle, and oh, god, oh, god, I need to touch him, one last time. I know it’s wrong. I know I’m too young for him. But I can’t let him leave. Not without having something more of him to hold onto.
