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“Kissing my neck? Kissing me? Calling me baby and hubby and ordering my lunch? Hell, kissing my hand? What does any of that show me?”
“That…”
She clenched her jaw.
“That what, Raina?” he hissed. “I’ve never lied to you. I’ve never kept how I felt about you a secret. None of that shit means anything if you can’t even say the words.”
Perhaps she would have had she known what they were. She didn’t like him. She wasn’t in love with him. The word dangled somewhere between both. Somewhere in the realm of “I want to keep experiencing the way you make me feel” and “Fighting with you isn’t something I do because I hate you.” The words skirted, “The time I spend with you is precious, even when we’re arguing with one another,” and they encompassed the same phrase he’d said to her over a year ago:
“There’s something about you.”
Marrying him was supposed to be a test—a test he was supposed to fail. Minutes ago, she’d assumed he was on his way to doing just that, to proving his little declaration had been all bullshit. Thathewas the one putting on the act, and she would be free to reel everything back in, climbing back into her cocoon of self-control, no matter how snug the chrysalis.
Now, she wasn’t sure.
“I need air,” he said.
The next thing she knew, she was alone.
ChapterSeventeen
It wasn’t love.
But whatever he was feeling, he wouldn’t be able to identify without a list or wheel of emotions that combined frustration with pride, appreciation, and at least a hundred pounds of lust.
How would she react if he told her that he wasn’t drunk that night? If she knew how much he didn’t want things to end in a few months and that he hadpowerfulfeelings for her that he wanted to keep exploring?
Had he not tossed the research paper on the table, would she have considered staying with him? For all he knew, she’d memorized the annulment requirements. Delilah said feelings were there, but sisters didn’t have to know everything about each other.
Delilah could be wrong.
With a groan, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his breaths bursting from his nose and throat as white mist. Words couldn’t describe how much he hated the degree to which he wanted Raina.
He looked for her.
He came for her.
He married her.
What couldn’t she see?
A gust of wind blew, reminding him he’d left the house in clothes completely inadequate for the temperature outside, but he couldn’t have stayed in that bedroom if he tried. Only a savage wanted someone as badly as he wanted to put Raina on her back and leave her twitching as if electrocuted by her own orgasm.
Then she’d begged him.
Asking her to beg had been a game; he didn’t need it to make love to her, but he wanted her to say that she wanted him. That she wanted more with him. It was how she acted, but he didn’t want to interpret her actions.
He wanted the words.
Of every woman he’d ever dated in his adult life, Raina was the one he’d been the least certain about. Even Emmaline had come with a level of confidence that never wavered.
Emmaline would have married him, if he asked. Emmaline would have had children with him, if he asked. Regardless of her preconceived notions and prejudices, she would have overlooked his background, his disability—everything.
If he asked.
But not Hell’s Tinker Bell.
Raina was her own woman in so many ways, he was beginning to wonder whether she could truly ever be his. Yet, he liked that about her, loved that about her.
