Just her.
Every shred of his conscience shouted at him to remember his career. Think of his brother. For the love of God, get the hell off her.
But she was so lovely and fresh—and not only sweet, but the perfect amount of tart. Her chest quaked with laughter, and her breasts danced under his chest. Damn, he hadn’t laughed like this with anyone in years. Perhaps he never had.
He didn’t know how to pull away.
Women liked him. He’d never had difficulty finding female company. But his lovers wanted the scoundrel and prizefighter. A big, hotheaded brute to toss them around the bed and pump them until they screamed. As a younger man, he’d been happy—hell, ecstatic—to oblige. But over the years, he’d come to crave more in the bedchamber than a bit of sweaty exertion.
Things like tenderness. Understanding. Laughter.
Moments just like this.
“Rafe . . .”
He shushed her, swiping the mussed hair from her brow. “You have icing on your forehead.”
“Oh, dear.” She reached to dab her left temple. “Here?”
“No. Here.” He licked the smear of vanilla from the right side of her brow.
She trembled, but she didn’t shy from him.
“There’s some here, too,” he lied. He ran his tongue over her cheekbone. She was more delicious than any icing. More tempting than any cake.
“Is that all of it?”
“No.” He touched his tongue to the corner of her lips.
And then they were kissing again, and her lips parted beneath his. Her arms went around his neck, and his legs tangled in her skirts. He rolled atop her lush body, shameless. Letting her abundant curves cradle all his hard, aching need. Sweeping his tongue between her lips. Again and again.
As if he kissed her deeply enough, he could claim her for his own.
She’s not yours, a voice inside him said.
He ignored it. He kissed down her neck and he slid one arm beneath her, gathering her by the waist and drawing her body tight against his. Until he held her so close she could have been a part of him.
She’s not.
She’s not yours.
He lifted his head abruptly. They were both breathing hard.
“I—”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t explain or make excuses. Please. If I have to hear again how this is just a bit of impersonal lust, or to settle a score from your adolescence . . . you’ll crush me.”
“I won’t tell you that.” He would be lying if he did. This was more dangerous than lust or envy.
Rafe rolled to the side, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know what the hell to call this feeling in his chest. But labels didn’t matter. He wasn’t free to explore it.
“You’re. Engaged. To. My. Brother.” Maybe if he spoke the words aloud, and slowly enough, they might sink into his conscience.
“I don’t have to be.” She struggled to a sitting position. “I could be not-engaged with a stroke of the pen.”
“It’s not that simple.” He sat up, too.
“It truly is.” She reached to wipe a bit of cake from his face. “Emotionally, he and I have no attachment. It’s just a matter of legalities. The moment you signed those dissolution papers, I’d be free. We’d be free.”
“To do what? Something you’d immediately regret?” He flicked a morsel of cake from his trouser leg.
“Why would I regr . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she frowned. “Oh, God. Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
“My engagement ring.” She flashed her naked, sticky hand at him. “It’s gone.”
He swore.
“We have to find it. It’s worth a fortune.” She rose from the carpet, looking high and low in her search. “It must have come off when I was sticking my hand in one of the cakes. I think I remember having it after the chocolate. And the almond. That would mean it got stuck in the . . .”
“Plum cake. Which I threw to the floor when you cried out.” He looked to the far corner. “Over there.”
Together they dashed around the table.
“Oh, drat.”