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Faster and faster.
I’d been talking like a chipmunk because the moment I said I’m sorry, August stood, kicking the tumbler over the edge of the deck, followed by a faint sound of glass shattering against the wooden piles. He’s stalking toward me now, head lowered like a panther, this predator prowling closer with dark intent.
My pulse quickens.
God, if I don’t talk fast, he’s going to pick me up and haul me up and put me out on my ass in the sand and—
He cuts me off with a kiss.
Savage.
Deep.
Rough.
He tastes like whiskey and frustration and darkness.
His mouth is so hard on mine, almost accusatory.
Confusion swamps me, dizzying heat as he nearly tears at my mouth with a probing tongue, seeking harshly like he’s searching for something I haven’t said yet to steal it from my lips.
His fingers grip my chin, tilting my head up, forcing me open to take more of that bruising kiss, until I’m overwhelmed and my knees are shaking.
He leaves me whirling, my heart racing ten thousand miles a minute.
With an irritated sound, he rips back, still holding my chin with his thumb and stroking the line of my jaw.
“For someone so perceptive,” August says bluntly, “you’re incredibly stupid.”
“Hey! What’s wrong with you tonight?” I scowl at him. If only he wasn’t so flipping hot, the moonlight turning his tanned skin silver at the edges. “I’m going to let that go because you’re drunk, but I am not stupid.”
“No. You’re definitely not. You’re too smart for your own good, and I’m sorry.” He almost snarls it, this odd mix of cynical humor and anger tangled in every word. “You can be oblivious, though. But smart. So smart. So bright. So beautiful. So batshit insane. You’re out of your fucking mind, Miss Eleanor Lark, and you’re driving me out of mine.”
. . . I’m so lost.
And I can’t catch my breath when his eyes are blue fire and he’s so close and he smells like that stark stony scent of his aftershave.
The roughness of his thumb glides over my lip until it feels sensitized again.
“A-August?” I manage. “I don’t get what you’re trying to say.”
“I’m saying I’m not in love with Charisma, or her memory, or whatever the fuck my guilt has made her,” he snarls. “I’m—”
He cuts off sharply, looking away.
His hand falls.
“I’m not fucking drunk enough for this conversation,” he mutters. “Or maybe too drunk. I don’t know. I just know that drunk or sober, you’re turning me upside down, and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t stop thinking about you, woman. Can’t stop wanting you. It’s confusing as hell.”
“I don’t mean to be.” And August isn’t the only one who’s confused, but more than anything, what I’m feeling is ... hope?
Yes, that’s it.
Selfish, guilty hope.
I came here to apologize, to stop pushing at him, but all he’s done is make me want even more.
Tentatively, I step closer. I touch my fingers to his stomach, tracing the sleek, hard ripple of his abs.
