He pulled away from me then, his breath hard and shallow. I whimpered in protest, terrified that this was it. But my fear dissipated when I looked into his eyes. We weren’t stopping. Hell, if I went by the fire I saw burning in his eyes, I didn’t think we’d ever stop.
For a breathless eternity we just stared at each other, and I imagined getting drawn into him, lost in his eyes. Melding and merging and never doing without this feeling again. My heart was pounding so hard I was certain that everyone could see the movement of my dress in time with my pulse. I wanted to beg for him to touch me again, to kiss me again, but at the same time I didn’t want him to stop looking at me, because under Evan’s gaze I felt more alive and real and solid than I had in years.
I didn’t know if we stood like that for hours or seconds. I was deaf to the music, blind to the crowd. There was only Evan, watching me. Wanting me.
He broke first, taking my hand and tugging me impatiently across the dance floor. I went willingly, following him down a dark hallway to a propped open fire door. He kicked it all the way open, then tugged me outside into a dimly lit alley. Immediately, I was accosted by the stench of stale beer and french fries, but I really didn’t care. Alley or five-star hotel, it didn’t matter to me. All I wanted was this man. This moment. All I wanted was to surrender.
I remembered my frustration with Kevin, but that wasn’t a problem with Evan. He took what he wanted, giving what I needed. Power, control, intensity.
In one motion, he had me back against the alley wall, his arms caging me.
“Dear god, Angie. You’re beautiful.”
“Evan.” That single word was all I could manage. The only sound I could push out past the swarm of emotions clogging my throat.
“Do you have any idea how long I—”
“What?” I demanded when he cut himself short. My word was a whisper, a plea. Hell, it was a prayer.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and fear shot through me, making me cold. “Christ, I’m so damn sorry.”
I reached out and clutched his T-shirt, refusing to let him walk away. It was only when I did that I realized that he wasn’t walking and the apology wasn’t meant for me. Or maybe it was. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care, because whatever he was doing or apologizing for or thinking about, it had nothing to do with leaving. I figured that out from the hard and fast way his mouth came down on mine, the way his knee edged between my legs. The way his proximity thickened the air between us, making it warm and liquid and sensual and safe.
He broke the kiss long enough to meet my eyes. His were dark with passion. Mine, I’m sure, were wide with wonder and delight.
I opened my mouth to speak, though I didn’t know what I intended to say.
He shook his head, then brushed a soft kiss over my lips. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think.”
I shook my head, then nodded, then shook it again. Don’t think? Hell, I couldn’t think. Not then, and certainly not when his lips brushed my temple and his hand closed over my breast. Then, all I could do was gasp.
His thumb brushed over my nipple, now hard behind my bra. What the hell had I been thinking? I should have burned the thing. Worn lace. Worn nothing at all.
“Damn clothes,” he murmured, and I almost laughed with delight at how in sync our thoughts were. That bubble of laughter, however, soon faded in the wake of the words that followed. That smooth masculine voice telling me he wanted to touch me, to drag his teeth over my nipples, to tug my skirt up and my panties down so that his fingers could cup and stroke me.
No, it wasn’t laughter that bubbled inside me anymore. Instead, it was molten lava. Hot. Thick. I wanted to bathe in it. To melt under his touch. To let him take me wherever he wanted to go.
I sighed with pleasure, my hips shifting in response to his words. My back arching in silent demand for more of his touch. More of him.
“Evan,” I said again, only this time it wasn’t a name, it was a plea. Hell, it was a command.