Ryan slipped the phone into the front pocket of his jeans. “She’d rather have jewelry. If I’m throwing money around, I might as well buy her jewelry.”
Lily plucked a chemise from the rack, pursed her lips as if the cut and construction could be found for less at a dollar store, and replaced it. “Why don’t you?” Simone said. “I doubt very much you’re going to have a story to tell me next week.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’s served a purpose.”
“As have I?”
“Yes.” Blunt, telling the truth. For once.
At that, Simone gripped the loose fabric of Ryan’s button-down and all but dragged him into the workroom. When the door swung closed behind her, she whirled on Ryan. “Why are you doing this?”
He took one look at the seamstresses bent over machines, then wrapped his fingers around her upper arm and pulled her behind the screen shielding the three-way mirror at the end of the workroom. Sheltered by the tall panels, Ryan’s charisma closed them in a little bubble.
He didn’t let her go.
“Because in a few days you won’t want to have anything to do with me. I wanted . . .” His voice trailed off. “I wanted. That’s all.”
She made Ryan Hamilton want. The thought, the possessive touch thrilled her, his fingers pressed into her flesh, leaving a mark, before her temper swamped the illicit thrill. “You must stop, Ryan,” she said, the words low, emphatic. “This isn’t good for you, and it’s not good for me, for my business. I foster independence in women, intimacy in couples, I don’t tear women down and break them apart. Lily doesn’t want to be here, and she could sabotage my reputation very effectively. Why are you doing this?”
He’d slowly backed her into the mirror as she threw angry words at him. Now there was nowhere to go. His body, tense with anger and frustration, stopped just short of pressing against her. With every sharp inhale her breasts brushed his chest.
“I need this. I have to do something this weekend—” He stopped, glanced at the wall between them and the showroom, visibly restrained himself and lifted his hands from her shoulders, then ducked his head and swore under his breath. “I’m using you, and God, all I want right now is to kiss you.”
“No.” Flat. Final. If she let him kiss her in the heat of the moment she would cross a line with herself that she could never recover from.
He bent his head but didn’t angle his mouth to take hers, as if he knew that if he crossed that line it was well and truly over between them. He didn’t even touch her again, just braced his forearms on either side of her head. A scant millimeter of air remained between his skin and hers as he drew his lips over her cheekbone, then the bridge of her nose, then over the other cheekbone. The only part of him to touch her was the breath that came from his lungs, and it suddenly seemed more intense than making love. Tiny, delicate hairs rose in the wake of each movement, and the sweetness of the near-touches, his parted lips, the soft warm breath, sent a shiver down her nape to pool hot and sweet between her thighs.
Her lips parted to whisper Don’t, don’t stop, but he stole the very breath from her lungs by tilting his head and ghosting his lips over the shell of her ear to the bolt of her jaw, where he paused. His arms were braced on either side of her head, and it was all she could do to stay on her feet from lack of oxygen. When he continued until his lips were not quite touching her chin, she tipped her head back slowly, exposing her throat to him as reluctantly as any prey exposed its throat to the wolf.
He gave a soft groan, or perhaps it was a growl, but either way he drew his mouth down her straining throat to the notch between her collarbone. His control was impeccable. Not once did he cross the line and actually touch her skin. His tongue never darted out to taste. He angled his head the other direction and let his open mouth hover over her skipping pulse before retracing his steps to the soft hollow under her ear.
“How am I doing?”
She’d never been kissed like this in her life, just only with breath, desire, a restraint that was utterly unexpected. “What?” she managed.
“It’s not French kissing,” he murmured. “Do you find it . . . acceptable?”