I back into my kitchen island and he locks me in with his arms, his eyes hungry and almost desperate. Then he cups my face and sets his mouth to mine like he thinks—mistakenly—I belong to him.
“I’m not,” he says softly, then he kisses me again, so deeply I lose my train of thought until he speaks against my mouth again. “A hallucination. And if you need me to, I’ll spend all night reminding you of what it feels like to have my tongue and my cock buried deep in you and how much you liked it.”
He leans over as if to kiss me again. My voice trembles as I turn my head. “Don’t, Greyson.”
“I don’t like that word, ‘don’t,’?” he rasps against my cheek. “But I do like you saying ‘Greyson.’?”
He tilts my head around with the tip of one finger and stares at me like he loves the look of me. I lift one of his arms and he lets me, and I start easing away again, free of him, but not free of his stare. The first night he just kept staring at my eyes like he couldn’t tear his gaze free, but now, now he’s seeing all of me. I’m wearing shorts and a camisole yet my body starts heating as his eyes rake me up and down.
“I gave you a chance and you blew it,” I breathe.
“I want another one.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop the stupid wings of some huge living thing batting around in my stomach. Suddenly my place smells like leather, like forest, and Greyson freaking King stands there looking like he does, confident, self-contained, his presence somehow demanding all my attention.
“Why are you here?”
He signals to the TV as I watch my dear, perfect Westley whisper to Buttercup, “As you wish,” then he looks at me, smiles as if at himself. “Are you watching a movie?”
“Not now, right now I’m watching you.”
He just smiles that rather sexy, rather annoying almost grin of his and sits on a side chair like some mighty king. I can feel myself frown because he just managed to shrink my place with his presence. Feeling little pinches in my stomach, I sit down on the couch, Westley forgotten, Buttercup forgotten, everything but HIM forgotten. I wait.
“How are you?” he asks softly, signaling at me.
“How do you think?” I sullenly ask.
“Looking pretty damn good from where I sit.”
“Do you always make yourself at home in places you’re not wanted?”
His soft laugh runs across my skin like a feather, pricking the little hairs on my arms. He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head, watching me with cool, knowing eyes. “I’m here to prove to you that, no, Melanie, you didn’t imagine me.”
The way his sensual tone combines with that brilliant narrowed gaze tells me we both know that I am definitely wanted here—and makes my toes curl. Fuck, he turns me on.
“I was about to eat a thousand pounds of chocolate because of you,” I accuse.
He stands and then comes to drop his body right next to me on the couch. “Well now, two hundred twenty pounds of me are right here. With you.”
“We’re not sleeping together again.”
“Considering I’ve been inside you, you should at least let me put my arms around you while we watch . . . what are we watching?”
“The Princess Bride. My favorite movie of all time.”
“Ah.”
He stretches his arm along the back of the couch, and my heart thumps like mad.
“Buttercup is engaged to Prince Humperdinck but her true love, Westley . . .”
His lips curl, and I shut up when I notice how amused he looks. Secretly amused by . . . me. It’s hot. And frankly, it bothers me. I whisper, “You’re a playboy. I know you are.”
“You know nothing about me.”
I roll my eyes. “I know your name. Greyson.”
“You mock my name with that evil glint in your eye like you love it, all it does is make me want to fuck you until you moan it.” He pulls my face to his. “I know every time you lie because I’ve been taught to detect liars since I was very, very young. You learn it when your father lies all the time,” he breathes, his hot breath on my lips causing a fire to stir inside my stomach. “I think of you, Melanie. I see your face in every woman. I flew here just to see you. Communication. Relationships. Those aren’t things I’m good at. There are other attributes I have that are far better. Like I see I’m good at making you pant. I see your pupils are dilated, you keep looking at my mouth instead of your favorite movie, and it’s taking all of my self-control not to give us exactly what it is we both need right now. It’s been a week, but as far as I’m concerned”—he cups the back of my head and nibbles on my lower lip—“I’ve been waiting a lifetime to sink myself in you.”
He presses me close, and I ache so much, I’m scared. By him, by this, this need to claw into his skin, press my lips to the hard line of his jaw, touch his thick, silky hair.
“Let me watch my movie, let go,” I protest feebly.
When he chuckles, his breath moves a couple of tendrils of loose hair at my temple. “If you want me to let you go, you need to stop pressing your pretty nipples against my chest as you say so, stop getting closer when you ask me to let you go,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose against mine, and his closeness, his scent of forest, his warm breath, his lips so close I can almost taste them, trigger a flood of need between my thighs and a hot, aching ripple in my sex.
I gasp as we almost kiss, and he groans and gives me space to breathe. He lifts his head, and I see him appraise me like a connoisseur would appraise a jewel or some antiquity. Why does he look at me like this? Why like THIS? Like he wants inside me as much as I want him. Like he wants more than my body, like he wants to suck the blood out of me, eat my soul up, and then pray to me.