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For a moment, I wonder if the deepened shadow across his cheeks is color. A bright, scarlet passion. Passion for me.
Then again, perhaps he was just reacting as any red-blooded male would when a half-asleep woman jumps them in the dark.
My head is spinning with questions. What happened, exactly?
If he was just reacting, what had caused Caleb to take things to a whole other level? Had I imagined that part? Just how much of our kiss had been in my head and how much out here in the real world? With our mouths still parted by only an inch of open air, I search Caleb’s shadowy features for the answers. When none appear, when he says nothing and can only watch me with that heated, predatory gaze, I refuse to wait for words.
This time, it’s me who throws herself into the kiss.
The arm of the chair hits me hard in the gut but I don’t care. I reach for Caleb, hands driving into the curls of his hair. I find the back of his head and yank him forwards, pulling and demanding that passion once more.
I need to know if it was all in my head. I need to know if the fire was real. If it might burn for me again. Heat me, warm me through, and then lead the two of us into the most blissful of sweaty ecstasies.
As our lips come together, though, I know it’s not going to happen.
Caleb’s mouth is just as velvety soft as before, just as deliciously shaped. And he tastes of want and hunger.
But he’s still. Cooled from the inside out.
After the barest of touches, he’s pulling free from my hold and falling back onto his heels. Those big hands, that only a second ago were burrowing through my hair and causing tingles of awareness over my scalp and spine, now find my elbows. He tugs them, freeing himself from my touch completely and encouraging my hands back into my lap. Back to my own territory.
In a single move, he makes me feel like an invader. A marauder of his lips and passions. An over-eager schoolgirl in the backseat of a decades-old Camaro.
A fool.
“I’m sorry.” He’s the one to murmur it.
His voice is so thick now, so rough, that I can barely hear it over the rustling of leaves in the trees. I wonder just what he’s apologizing for. Kissing me until my bones turn to flame and reducing me to a puddle of quivering need? Or for failing to then damn well follow through on all the promises his kiss implies?
I know which one I want him to be apologizing for.
“I…” I don’t have anything to say. I don’t want his apology, so I can’t accept it. Technically, I kissed him so maybe I should be the one saying sorry? And yet, I don’t much want to do that either. So, what is left besides awkwardly staring at each other?
“I know what it’s like to lose someone and I know you’re probably hurting.”
Okay, odd change of conversation, I think. I’m definitely hurting—ladies get blue balls too—but that particular pain has nothing to do with my life back in New York. More everything to do with the way his hands have made me feel.
“But I can’t afford to be your distraction here.”
“My what?”
“I mean,” again, that darker color flits across his face. As if his attempts to put one word in front of the other are making him flustered.
I might think it was adorable if I wasn’t suddenly bubbling with fury.
“Look, I just meant that, people cope in different ways, right? Drink, isolation, sex with strangers—”
“Hold up!” I jump to my feet. The blanket falls around my ankles but the rush of cold air over my clothes does little to cool me. Or the deeper flame he’s set burning inside. “You think I’m using you as some kind of grief counseling?”
Caleb looks up at me from the ground. When he stands, he does it slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal. His hands are out, palms toward me, like men do when they think a woman is about to morph into an emotional hyena.
“Maybe that wasn’t the best way to phrase it, but yes, I think you’re in a vulnerable state. Why else would you be getting so defensive?”
“I’m not defensive!” I snarl, fists curled at my sides.
We’re standing off against each other now like two prizefighters. One eager for battle and the other adopting the universal ‘let’s all just stay calm’ body language. Caleb’s jaw squares off with tension and I can see the column of his throat shift as he swallows. In the dip where his neck meets his collarbone, I can read his pulse. Erratic and thrumming. He’s not as indifferent to me as he’s trying to appear. Not by a long shot.
My mouth instantly goes dry and my breasts feel heavy. I glance at his hands. At the proud, straight bones beneath tanned skin. The tendons that speak to their strength. The little tough pads I know are on his palms. They had felt so good around my face and in my hair. What would they feel like on my body?
