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“That’s not what I offered.”
Twenty-Two
That’s not what I offered.
So much to unpack in that. He was making it clear that anything he gave would be on his terms and could not possibly lead to something more permanent between them. She was supposed to be okay with that, but the fact he was so okay with it gave her pause.
But wasn’t this what she wanted from him? One night to lose herself in the pleasure of his kiss, the ecstasy of his touch, the oblivion of his body. Tonight she didn’t want to talk or think or dwell on her problems.
Her world was about to crash and burn in a fiery wreck. All her lies and evasions were coming home to roost because Simon wanted to see Evan. Yet her mind was filled with desperate thoughts of one man’s strong arms, the hair on his body raising every hair on hers, the sensation of him as he buried inside her that hard length she had felt pressed against her belly a week ago. Guiding her through this storm in her head and tumult in her soul. Not just any man but her friend who stood before her like a Roman god of sex, offering the comfort she so urgently needed.
Take him!Bad Girl Jules screamed,That body is made to love you tonight.
He’s going to break your heart,Good Girl Jules said sadly. That bitch was such a downer.
“What about the bar?” she asked, darting her tongue over parched lips.
“Kennedy can manage. Unless you’ve changed your mind and are trying to get rid of me?”
He brushed his knuckles against the swell of her breasts. Greedily, they strained to meet his glancing touch—a clear answer to his question about her supposed turnabout.
His lips twitched in understanding.
“Tell me everything you want,” he said, slow and edgy as if every word took colossal effort.
Surely he knew what she wanted, what a night in his embrace would mean to her.
Love me, Tad. Love me like you love all the others.
“For one night, I want you to look at me like I’m your world.”
It was all the invitation he needed. Whip fast, he pushed her back against the door, pinning her completely with all six-feet-two inches of hot Italian male. His unyielding firmness moved against her soft body, no rhythm, no rhyme, just primal got-to-touch you. All she could feel was heat, his breath on her neck, his hot solidity shaping her, his body imprinted on hers.
Feeling bad had never felt so good.
His raw moan in her ear shot straight to the fork of her legs. “Jules.”
She had heard him say her name so many times—sometimes amused, often times with affection, even in exasperation when she called him to task about how he had treated some poor girl he dated, but never had it sounded like this. Needful, desperate, as if it was the only word in his vocabulary.
As if it meant everything.
Heat roared over her body. Pleasure howled through her. There was a decent chance she was going to explode any minute if he didn’t ki—his mouth found hers and claimed it for his own.
Those sensuous lips should have been familiar to her from chaste pecks and the not-so-chaste kiss a week ago, but tonight everything felt new and fresh. Some kisses needed a build to get to the heat, not this one. It ignited the second they touched, so much so Jules wondered how it could possibly improve. There should have been nowhere to go but down. Instead it spiraled up, plateaued for a moment to catch a breath, and then rose higher still to find new ways to blow her mind. He tasted of wine and male, a combination that all but destroyed her.
Her fingers raking his hair drew him away from her with a subtle pressure. In his hooded eyes, she saw his warm gaze stoke to flame as he admired her cleavage. Her breath caught in her lungs at the intensity in his expression.
“You’re not wearing a bra,” he said.
“Observant,” she said dryly.
“Yes, I am. And so was every other guy tonight.” He brushed his thumb over the stiff nipple that poked through the sensual fabric of her skimpy dress. At the throaty sound she made, he pushed the fabric aside and frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes flashed in anger. “Anyone could have done that all night. Every guy in my bar was thinking about getting their filthy hands on you and I wanted to punch every last one of them.”
His voice was husky, the beast of a growl straining at the leash. Along with the snarl, she felt his body tense and coil. Against her hip, his curled palm flexed, as if testing his willpower. He was a gleaming, dangerous predator and she was prey.
