“And I’m trying. But every time I ask you one question back, you shut the door.”
I swallow, forcing the cotton ball in my throat down. “Parker, I’m not the patient.”
“No,” he says, his eyes falling to my mouth again. “You’re the woman who keeps telling me to trust. But I realized something today with the kids. Trust is a two-way street. It’s hard to trust someone when they don’t trust you.”
My breathing changes, chest inflates. He notices.
I should tell him to leave.
I should open the door and escort him out.
I should put distance, a desk and every professional boundary between us.
Instead, I stand there breathing him in. Nothing fancy. Just soap and detergent smelling of cotton.
The memory of the rink rushes back all at once—his arms wrapped around me, his chest under my palms and the heat rising from his body.
My pulse skips a beat, betraying me. “Parker?—”
His hands lift in an agonizing fashion, giving me every chance to stop what I think is about to happen. His body seems to be giving me all the signals. Pupils half blown, scratchy, but low voice.
I don’t stop him. I just look at him. My eyes feel as round as globes. A skitter of nerves travels up my spine.
His fingers brush my jaw, before extending those long fingers, and cup my face.
If I let him kiss me, it’s irreversible. It changes the whole dynamic.
His thumbs rest just beneath my cheekbone.
I should move or look away, but I get lost in the sincerity of his eyes that are far too gentle for a man who has spent years driving me insane.
“You can tell me no,” he says, his voice roughened around the edge.
I should tell him no. But I can’t. Not when he’s drinking me in. Not when my body has already made the choice to stay even though my brain is frantically screaming at me.
Don’t let him get too close.
It could ruin everything.
Still holding my face, he draws me closer and I feel the heat radiating from his body. Enough chemistry that my breath catches.
Then his mouth is on mine.
Soft.
Slower than I expect.
Asking.
And God help me, I answer.
My hands rise to his chest fisting the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepens. One of his hands slides down my neck, over my blouse then settles on my waist, keeping me close without trapping me. And the fact that he instinctually knows to give me my space nearly undoes me as much as the kiss itself.
He tastes like cinnamon, warm and dangerous, not to anyone but me. My legs go weak and wobbly.
His thumb strokes along my jaw and I melt into him in a way thatprofessional meabsolutely doesn’t approve of.Personal me, has been waiting my entire life for a kiss like this.
What am I thinking? This is Parker. Late to everything, infuriating, too-charming, Parker.