I didn’t know what I’d done to pull the wool over his eyes. I didn’t know why he looked at me like he thought I was someone worthy, someone pure, someone who fit seamlessly at his side. Someone who could meet his neighbors and sit in his kitchen enjoying a home-cooked meal. If he knew who I was, if he knew how I’d lived these past ten years, that look would be gone in a heartbeat.
So, I didn’t tell him.
I just enjoyed myself. I soaked him in like a sponge, sucking up as much Cade Hightower as humanly possible so I could enjoy it later, when life went back to normal and the Imogen Warner International Tour of Misery commenced once more.
“You want dessert?” he murmured now, stopping before my stool. The overhead lights were dimmed low, softening the angular cut of his cheekbones, the chiseled line of his jaw. His thick hair was falling over his forehead in that particular way that always made me ache to push it back for him
God, he was gorgeous.
Unfairly so.
I shook my head. “Still full from dinner.”
His hands landed on my thighs. Even through my jeans, his touch was warm and solid. I tried — failed — to keep my breaths even as he slowly parted my legs and stepped between them. My hands found his waist, holding on as my head tipped back to keep his face in sight.
“Doyouwant dessert?” I asked breathily.
In lieu of an answer, his lips hit my neck, nibbling a path up to the pulse point that was thudding madly on the underside of my jaw. His tongue tasted the skin there. I shivered at the sensation as pleasure spiraled through me, a slow furl from my head to my toes. My hands slid around his back as I arched against him, pressing my breasts to his chest, desperate to get as close as I could manage.
“Don’t need dessert, but I can think of something sweet I’d like on my tongue,” he murmured a second before his mouth hit mine. Then, in a blink, I was being lifted up off the stool. My legs wrapped automatically around his waist as he carried me out of the kitchen, down the hall, into the master bedroom, kissing me the entire time.
Earlier, I’d been curious what his room might look like.
In this moment, I couldn’t care less.
I landed on the bed.
Cade landed on me.
Yes.
Finally.
We were equally ravenous, equally eager to reignite the passion we’d sparked the night before. I worked the buttons of his shirt with shaky hands, struggling to undo them with my gloved fingers. He took over, moving so fast Clark Kent would be impressed. I spared a second to examine his bare chest up close for the first time. Pure, primal appreciation flared in my stomach as I saw the washboard abs, the distinct divots of his six-pack, the faint smattering of hair that covered his pectorals. I couldn’t help myself — I leaned in to plant a kiss over his heart, then drifted a few inches down to flick his nipple with the tip of my tongue.
He loosed a low growl of desire as he tipped my face back up to his. His mouth slammed down on mine in an all-consuming kiss, one that only broke apart long enough for him to whisk my blouse up over my head and toss it away. Then his mouth came right back down and claimed mine, hard and hot and so freakingdeepI could feel it move all the way through me. In my bones, in my bloodstream, in between my thighs.
I made a mewling, desperate sound, unable to articulate all that I was feeling, just knowing I needed more of it. More of him.
Now.
His hands found the clasp of my bra and then,whoosh, it too was gone. My jeans and underwear followed suit quickly, as did his. Eventually, the only thing left were my delicate calfskin gloves — the ones with the little buttons at the wrists. He tweaked one of the buttons with the pad of his thumb, his eyes locked on my face to gauge my reaction. My breath caught and I went still, wondering how I was going to explain this to him without sounding like an utter freak. Knowing, even if I found the words, telling him the truth might scare him off.
Orturnhim off.
I’d been dreading this moment, however inevitable. In a way, I was surprised we hadn’t gotten here sooner. Most everyone else asked at some point or another. Hell, Sally had asked me just this morning.
What’s with the glove collection, sugar? You a cat burglar by night?
Flo and Gwen had broached the subject yesterday afternoon. Even Gigi had wondered openly about my odd fashion choice, blurting out her curiosity after several lip-loosening glasses of limoncello.
I gave them all the same canned answer I always used.
The skin on my hands is super sensitive.
A half-truth.
A big omission.