But what did she expect of him? To be overjoyed at the prospect of further torment? For pity’s sake, he couldn’t stand within ten feet of her without imagining what it would be like to drag her to the nearest flat surface—he’d eyed the center table twice already—and ease the ache he’d lived with for eight bloody years.
Couldn’t she see what she did to him? Didn’t she know how much harder it was to resist temptation once he had his hands on her?
He took in her baffled and hurt expression. Apparently, she did not.
“It’s not me,” he said. “It’s men.”
Unsurprisingly, that statement did not clear things up. “I…what?”
“You don’t understand men.”
She spluttered a bit before responding. “I’ve no trouble at all understanding Whit and Alex.”
“They’re family.”
“And a familial connection alters gender?”
“No, it’s different.”
“Not so very different.” She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive posture that pressed the soft mounds of her breasts up another tantalizing inch. He dragged his eyes to her face and watched as she caught her plump bottom lip with her small, white teeth.
It was too much. The need that had been clawing painfully under his skin like a wild animal tore free.
He took a step toward her and gained a wicked satisfaction at the way her eyes widened and her breath hitched. “They don’t want to kiss you,” he growled.
Her arms fell to her sides. “Well, no, not—”
He took another step and had her retreating.
Oh, he liked that. He liked the unfamiliar power in having the upper hand. For once, for once, she could be the one to back away. “They don’t think about it, every bloody second of the day.”
“I…I should hope not.”
He stalked her mercilessly. “They don’t imagine what it would be like to have you alone, like this. Like the night in the woods. At the inn.”
She stopped backing away and swallowed hard. “Why should you only imagine it?” she whispered unsteadily. “You know I want to kiss you.”
He swallowed a groan and reached up slowly to rub the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. “A man’s imagination extends beyond kissing.”
“You don’t want to kiss me because you’d rather do…something else?”
He nearly laughed. “Something else” was certainly one way of putting it. “Everything” would be his way.
“It’s not an either-or proposition. The first is a step to the rest. Beginning makes it difficult to stop.”
Finally, finally, the light of comprehension dawned. “Oh, do you—”
He didn’t give her the opportunity to ask any more questions. “But since you began it—”
He took that last step to close the space between them and hauled her into his arms. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.
He simply couldn’t stop himself.
Evie’s hands flew up to his chest. “It’s to be my way. You agreed—”
He lowered his head slowly. “I lied.”
“But—”
“I’m not a Cole, Evie. I never said my word was good.”
Her mouth dropped open, just in time for him to cover it with his own.
Thoughts of what he should and should not do evaporated the very second their lips touched. In all honesty, those thoughts had begun a rapid disintegration the moment she’d offered the bargain and had disappeared almost entirely when she’d crossed her arms over her chest, but now—Now he could feel the warmth of her, the hard hammer of her heart, the delicate flutter of her hands.
He gave in to the fantasy he’d had since he’d seen her toying with the pen in the library and nipped at her bottom lip. She gasped, trembled, and reached up to twine her arms around his neck. The soft weight of her breasts pushed deliciously against his chest.
He speared his fingers into her hair and with a tug forced her head back farther, deepening the kiss, demanding she give over control.
Later, he would think it a pity he had lost his own.
He didn’t take her mouth in gentle seduction. There were no careful tastes or lingering sighs. Driven by the need he’d kept chained for too long, he simply held her still, and feasted. His lips moved over hers in hungry demand, his tongue sweeping inside the warm haven of her mouth, seeking out the flavor he craved. She was delicious, addictive, intoxicating.
He turned to trap her between the table and his body. The hand at her back slid over and up, molding her waist, her rib cage, and finally reaching her breasts.
He rubbed his thumb across a fabric-covered nipple and swallowed her soft whimper.
He heard his own growl. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
He was dimly aware of hiking her up to sit on the table, of roughly spreading her legs so he could stand between them. He was almost conscious of his fingers seeking out the buttons at the back of her dress.
He’d just found them when the floorboards creaked loudly overhead—a stark reminder of where they were.
He broke away, panting, hurting.
“Bloody hell.” Struggling to regain control, he braced his hands against the table on either side of her. “Bloody, buggering hell.”
He’d almost done it. He’d almost taken her on the kitchen table.