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I tick-tock my head once. Twice. “Not beyond the realm of reason.”
“And you’re sure of this…how?” Inside two seconds, his gaze is ten times darker. A thousand times more intense. “Are you wearing Darian Z intimates, Miss Lamarr?”
I’m conquered by a blush before I even realize it’s there. “You’re dodging the question.”
“Not beyond the realm of reason.”
“And you’re not being serious enough.”
It’s a full-on accusation and I’m not ashamed. But neither is he, claiming a responding frown for himself. “Is that what you really think? When you’ve arrived here looking like…this?”
The intent of his emphasis is glaringly—and exhilaratingly—clear during his repeat survey of my whole body. Never have I thanked myself so thoroughly for holding onto these impractical shoes. They feel so wonderfully useful now—but not for any of the important reasons. Well, the reasons that should be important.
“Okay, focus up.” I intone it for both our benefits. “You have to think about this stuff, right the hell now. To be brutally honest, it should’ve been months or even a year ago. Lawyering up and registering copyrights on all your work… That’s got to be your step one, okay?” I plunk my wine and plate back onto the table. “Without that, there can’t be any step two. Blanca won’t be able to level you up at all, unless—”
“No.”
One syllable, gritted so severely, that halts all my movement before I can settle back on the couch.
Then one grab of his hand around my wrist.
Then one flex of his arm, yanking me in his direction instead.
Until we’re close again. So exquisitely, excruciatingly close. Near enough that I see his eyes also have small silver glints, and there’s now a smoky hint to his scent. Thick vapors that I long to fan into full flames…
No.
The word is mine now, screaming from my deepest senses. Lust isn’t a good color on me. It’s the shade of my disaster. Of all my failures. And a lot more.
“I thought I made myself clear this afternoon, Miss Lamarr. I want you.”
God help me.
But right now, it feels so completely, wonderfully…right. Especially as his face darkens, seemingly overtaken by the same desperate thought—before his lips part on new words.
“Damn it…I want you.”
Not new words, though in every sense they should be. To so many parts of me, they are. The urgent sprint of my pulse. The crazy hammer at the center of my chest. Worst—and best—of all, the heated throb in the tender tissues between my legs, so swollen and yet so bereft. Drastically aching for the one thing they can’t have. The man they can’t crave. This man.
No.
No.
No.
It’s about more than saving my job. It’s preserving my sanity. My survival as what and whom I’ve fought to become, independent from my runaway romanticism and fantasy expectations.
But why does that all have to include such denial?
Refusing myself as a woman. As a human. As a living, breathing creature with primal and normal needs. Why can’t I take care of that Quinn, and still honor the other one?
Maybe it’s time to try.
Oh my hell, maybe it’s past time.
The admission is like shedding a huge weight. The pressure of it bursts, flowing into a long sigh from my lips. He parts his own at once, sucking in my air between those elegant edges, effectively wrapping me tighter in his sensual spell. His unmistakable pull. The entrancing energy of everything that makes his music so magical. The committed depths of his passion. The unashamed heights of his hedonism. And still, underlying it all, the promise of more.
So much more.
“Darian…” I take a small taste of it, just to see if I’m buying an unreal anticipation. But no. Two seconds of a kiss are better than I ever expected. Sweeter. Hotter. Inviting me to take all the more I desire. “I want you too.”
