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“You’re a bad liar, Meyer,” he said, dipping his head so that he was almost touching her lips with his. She sucked in a breath, but didn’t step back. He chuckled, stepping toward her. Then, she stepped back.
“And you’re a bad--,” she broke off, her back coming into contact with the deck support again. He still wasn’t kissing her. He was crowding her against the deck support, fully aware that he’d stopped being unprofessional and slipped straight into asshole territory about five minutes ago.
“Bad what,” he goaded, deciding that he would back off as soon as she gave a hint she was unreceptive.
“You’re a bad…” her eyes were heavy-lidded, her hand tangling in his shirt. Not pushing him away, but not urging him forward either. She licked her lips, eyes flicking from his chest to his mouth and back again.
“A bad…” he said, trailing off because he was distracted by the realization that the tight fabric that covered her legs wasn’t denim, it was something more like a tee shirt. At least, that’s what it felt like under his fingers. Fingers that somehow had found their way to her hips.
The realization that the layers of material between them were so much more insubstantial than he thought they were sent something straight to his groin. He almost moaned. Abigail’s hand slipped a little further down his belly, her nails scratching over the fabric of his tee shirt. He wanted her to keep doing that. Keep going south.
His fingers flexed on her hips and her head fell back against the deck support, lifting her chin so that she was in the perfect position to kiss him back if that’s what he wanted to do.
“Remember, I’m not going to kiss you,” he said again, this time, his lips brushed her earlobe.
SIX
“Remember, I’m not going to kiss you,” he said, his breath hot on her neck. Abi bit down hard on her tongue so that she wouldn’t moan in protest.
She had never in her life wanted a man to kiss her more than this. The reality that she also wanted him to drop stone dead was something she could worry about later.
“Ilan,” she said, hoping her voice sounded surer than she was. Because she was feeling like a teenage girl on her very first date. Her palms were clammy, and her heart was tripping over itself while her mind was tick, tick, ticking along. It gave her helpful, bullet-pointed reasons why doing this again was a bad idea.
She could feel his arousal pressing against her.
Abi licked her lips again, wondering when the best time would be to say she was on fire. That was probably something a person should know, right? And it’s not like he wasn’t well acquainted with wood. Wood burned, didn’t it? He’d know what to do with fire.
Wood.
Wood, the giggle burbled up in her throat, and she clamped it down hard with the same resolve she used when the three-year-olds demanded extra snacks.
“Abigail,” he said. His fingers were doing tantalizing things through the fabric of her leggings. She’d never been ticklish before, but the way her body was responding to him was entirely new. She wanted to squirm away from him. She wanted to press harder against him. She wanted—she wanted… what did she want?
“What is this?” she said, proud of herself for being able to say something, anything at all. Her other hand was at his waist, fingers playing along the edges of the utilitarian belt buckle. Not trying to open it—God, what was she if she was trying to open the jeans of a man she’d known and had no real feelings for as long as she’d really known him? No, she just wanted something to ground her. Her thumb rubbed against the smooth steel face of his belt buckle, back and forth. It was a soothing gesture, but it soothed neither of them, she could tell.
“I don’t know,” he said, his forehead resting against hers. His fingers found their way under the hem of her tee shirt, fiddling against the waist of her leggings. Abi made an affirmative noise when his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her panties, touching the bare skin of her belly. “This is a bad idea.”
“Agreed,” she said, her fingers pulling back the closure on the belt. She told herself it was because she was fiddling. Just absently. She wasn’t intentionally opening his belt buckle. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“What are we doing again?” he asked, the almost touch of his lips, so close she could feel them brushing her jaw as he spoke, made her shiver. His fingers flexed on her belly, and she knew without looking that he was smiling. She wanted to go back to anonymously fucking him in a parking lot. That was so much easier than this—whatever this was.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, her fingers jerking against the closures on his jeans. The movements were short, jerky. “But I’m proving a point.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, amusement tinging his words. He wasn’t doing anything to touch her anywhere interesting, she reasoned, his fingers were just caressing. Making wide and then small, tight caresses along her sides under the tee shirt. They just brushed the band of her bra at the same moment her fingers closed over his zipper. He gasped, stiffening against her as she opened them completely.
“I shouldn’t have done that, probably,” she said, her eyes watching his face carefully. Ilan’s blue, blue eyes were so dark they were almost black in the shadow of the deck above them. Or maybe that was sexual tension, she thought. Whatever it was, she told herself she wouldn’t go any further if he gave any sign he didn’t want her to.
“Probably not,” he said, his body ever pressing into hers.
“Do you want me to stop?” she said. She wanted to give him space to say yes, stop if that’s what he wanted.
“Do you want to stop?” he asked, his thumb pressing just the barest bit under the band of her bra. Abi’s whole body felt like a livewire. She was so aware of the barest hint of touch because she was paying such close attention to his lips and how they were nowhere near her own that it was impossible to do anything but shake her head.
She could feel the heat of his arousal, and she took great pleasure in easing his jeans back so that it was no longer pressing into the folds of denim. Ilan grunted, and her eyes flicked back to his. His face was a mask of refined bewilderment, and she wasn’t sure how she should respond. She chewed on her lower lip, wondering what the best way was to end, and win, this game they were playing. This game where they said everything but what they were actually thinking.
“Abigail,” he said, his fingers teasing over the fullest part of her breast through the thin, unlined fabric of the bra.
“Abi,” she said, one of her hands jerking away from his body, reflexively covering his hand, holding it firmly against her breast.
