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He said nothing, not prepared to argue the point with her. Not when they were having such a great evening. If he was leaving tomorrow, then he wanted this to be a good memory. One that could—if not replace—somewhat diminish the memory of that terrible night ten years ago.
“Any dessert?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“Dessert? Mister, you must not know whose house this is. Of course there’s dessert,” she said, her voice light. She seemed as keen as he to just let any contentious matter fall by the wayside.
He watched as she jumped up and practically skipped to the fridge. She was wearing another pair of those ass-hugging leggings he so enjoyed; these were electric blue and were combined with a loose, slouchy orange top. The color clashed horribly with her hair, and she clearly didn’t care. The top kept sliding off one smooth, rounded, naked shoulder, and he’d found himself speculating throughout the evening about what she could possibly be wearing under it. No bra strap didn’t automatically mean no bra, but he could—and did—fantasize about that exact possibility.
How easy it would be to slip his hand under that top and find her breast. His head would follow his hand, and he’d happily lose himself under that roomy garment, exploring every charm she had to offer.
He shuddered, fighting to bring his raging hormones under control. She was bent at the waist as she rummaged around in her fridge, and he had a perfect view of her round, firm butt. God, he wanted to cup that ass, caress it, stroke it, bite it . . .
He easily imagined getting up from the table, walking up to her, lining himself up behind her, reaching out with his trembling hands, and . . .
“Harris?”
Jesus!
He blinked, coming out of his erotic daze, and stared into her wide eyes for a long uncomprehending moment. She was speaking, and he couldn’t quite make sense of the words. All he could think of was pulling down those leggings and easing into her warm, welcoming femininity from behind.
“Harris, snap out of it!” She was repeatedly clicking her fingers in front of his eyes, and he lifted his hand to gently push hers out of his face.
“Stop that,” he remonstrated mildly.
“Where did you go?” she asked curiously, sitting down across from him.
“No place you’d be interested in going. Not with me.” Well, that came out sounding a lot more bitter than he’d intended. “I thought you were getting dessert.”
She cast her eyes pointedly down to the table, and he frowned when he saw the bowl of delicious-looking chocolate mousse placed in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed her putting it there. Okay, so he’d been a little more preoccupied than he’d realized.
“Thanks,” he said, picking up a spoon and sampling the rich dessert. The creamy chocolate melted in his mouth, and he moaned involuntarily as angels danced on his tongue. He felt his cheeks heat at his embarrassing overreaction to the treat. “This is great. Did you make it?”
“Hah! Nice one, Harris. You know I couldn’t do something like this if my life depended on it. Libby made it, of course.”
“Of course,” he parroted dumbly. He should have recognized it as one of Libby’s desserts; she always added the tiniest hint of orange to her chocolate mousse.
“So . . . ,” she said after they’d both plowed their way silently through half their desserts. “Try me.”
God, I’d love to! Harris thought irreverently.
“What do you mean?” was the question he verbalized instead.
“You said I wouldn’t be interested in whatever it was you were daydreaming about. Remember how I told you not to speak for me yesterday? The same applies to thinking for me.” She licked the back of her spoon, and he bit back a pained groan. She was going to be the death of him. “So tell me what that was about.”
Tina watched his already-dark eyes go almost black, and suddenly she knew what he’d been thinking about, fantasizing about, earlier. How could she not, when he was staring at her with such naked intent? She nearly told him she’d changed her mind, that she didn’t want to know, but then he spoke . . . his voice hoarse, his words curt and matter-of-fact.
“I was picturing us. Making love.”
Making love. His choice of words was shockingly romantic. She would have expected something earthier from him. His terse expression and his rigidly controlled voice certainly did not convey an ounce of romance. Instead they spoke of a raw and lusty urgency. A drive to do something wholly elemental. And that—more than his words—was what resonated with Tina. That urgency . . . that fundamental craving to claim and be claimed.
She carefully set her spoon aside, pushed her dessert bowl away, and folded her hands primly, one above the other, on the table in front of her.
