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The side of his mouth twists up. “Sure, we can go with that.”
My brows sink low as I try to figure out what he means. I mean, there's a spark of attraction there. But you'd have to be crazy not to notice how hot Silas is.
But in a relationship—or whatever this thing is—with Silas? Not a chance. Rumor in Rosewood is he doesn't date, like ever. So the likelihood of a relationship with a woman who's also dating his brotherandhis cousin is so slim, it's laughable.
I shake my head, more to myself than him. “What are you saying?”
His thumb starts making little arcs of affection along the top of my thigh. “Nothing, baby girl. We'll talk about it later, yeah?”
“Okay,” I answer sort of numbly. It seems wildly insufficient after such a conversation, but I honestly don't know what to say. Exhaustion sits heavily on my shoulders. It really has been one of the longest days ever.
“We can talk about whatever else you want later too.”
“Over coffee in the morning?” I lean my head against the headrest and look at him.
“The largest dirty chai I can get my hands on. I'll take care of you, Evangeline.”
“I still can't believe you remembered that,” I mumble, pushing my hair off of my face.
“Did you forget who you're with, baby girl?”
It's hard to see much more than his profile in the dim interior lighting, but I hear the teasing lilt in his voice. He's talking about coffee but it feels like he's talking about something much more.
“I've never forgotten who you are.” I murmur.
“And do you remember who you are?” he asks as he turns right onto another county road. “And what you deserve?”
I don’t answer him, leaning my head against the window and letting my eyes drift shut.
“You deserve something better than a quick fuck in the middle of a party, baby girl.” His voice is gruff in my ear, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot on my neck.
I arch my neck to the side, offering more skin for his pillowy lips to glide across. “If you're about to tell me something cliche like rose petals and candles, I'm going to get up and walk away.”
My voice comes out so low and sultry, I hardly recognize it.
His hands tighten on my waist reflexively, like he's inherently possessive. I don't even care if it's a character trait and not an emotion reserved for me. I like it all the same.
“Roses and candles? Nah. But maybe someplace with a bed or a couch or one of those fucking overstuffed beanbag things.”
Amusement trickles in, and a small chuckle slips through my lips.
His right hand slides up and settles along my ribs, his thumb sweeping over the underside of my breast. “Somewhere I could take my time, treat you the way you deserve.”
My breath hitches at his touch. Two layers of fabric separate our skin, but I can still somehow feel him. The ache inside me blooms further, unfurling its petals and growing hungry.
His left hand smooths up my spine, his fingers sinking into the hair at the nape of my neck. “Somewhere with a spacious shower, so I could take care of you after.” He nips at my jaw, dragging his teeth with a hint of pressure. “Where I would try to persuade you to let me worship you.” He uses his grip on my hair to angle my head toward him, our mouths aligning. “Again. And again. And again,” he says against my lips.
Small, panting breaths leave me as the scenario he's painting takes shape in my mind.
“I'd show you what it means to be mine. And baby girl? I always take care of what's mine.”
I'm nodding, eyes closed and hips already rolling against his as I straddle his lap. “Yes, I want that. But I want this too.”
“Tell me what you want,” he tells me. It's a quiet demand.
“I want you. Here. On the beach.”
“Evangeline?”
