His lids shut briefly and she was almost positive a growl rattled in his throat before he opened them again and took another step in her direction, the space between them nearly nonexistent now. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay,” he admitted, but there was no hint of an apology in his tone.
“And I told you I didn’t need you to.”
“And I never agreed to listen to you.”
She sighed. “So you waited till the club closed and followed me home?” She dropped her hands from their defensive position on her hips down to her sides. “That’s kind of creepy, you know.” She paused as his sable stare skirted back to her eyes. “You should scare me.”
His hand reached out and flattened against the side of her neck, drawing her body the remaining way to him. “Are you scared?”
“No,” she answered promptly. She stayed cemented to his hand, letting the hypnotic warmth from his palm spread across her skin, easing the muscles beneath. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not in the way he was referring to. But was she afraid of the way his touch soothed her? Of the way his voice calmed her? Of the way his eyes claimed her? Absolutely.
She didn’t want to admit it, but she couldn’t deny that she was glad he was there. She shouldn’t be—she didn’t know a thing about him, other than the passionate way his hands were able to scorch her body. But still, she was glad.
“So do you always ignore what women ask you to do and do what you want anyway?”
His fingers curled gently into her skin, kneading her tight muscles. “I’m not going to apologize for following you to make sure you were okay. I told you back at the club that I was there, that I’d stay there . . . for you. And I meant it. Hate to break it to you, but bitchiness doesn’t scare me off, gorgeous.” His thumb moved to her jaw, tracing the delicate line. “You okay?”
She exhaled and nodded. “Yes.”
Rafe’s other hand cupped her nape, softly holding her head with both hands. It was comforting in a way she was unfamiliar with, in a way that was pure, genuine. “Is she okay?” he asked.
“George said she woke up for a minute or so. She’s still sleeping it off.”
“Good.” He lowered his hands to the outside of her arms.
Standing in front of her, he was still, steady. She felt compelled to lean into him. She couldn’t remember ever having that desire, ever craving the comfort another person offered. She’d been on her own for so long that she’d become accustomed to leaning only on herself, on needing no one.
And even before she’d been disowned from her prestigious family, she’d still never felt comfort or safety. She’d never felt cared for. Not in the way a person needs to be cared for. She had the best of everything: the best schools, the best ballet instructors, designer clothes, anything and everything money could provide her with. But when she’d lost the lead role in Sleeping Beauty, she never had anyone to comfort her; her mother had only scowled at her, telling her to practice harder. When she’d had the chicken pox when she was six, she was never comforted; she was merely threatened not to scratch and scar her skin. She was simply her parents’ shiny trophy, and one that was easily discarded.
The men she’d known were no different.
This was exactly why the few relationships she’d had with men were more like a partnership—like a formal business partnership. A strictly physical relationship. No friendship, no talking, no cuddling, no phone calls or spontaneous pop-overs. When a woman included those things, it got personal—she’d end up letting him in. And if she let him in, she’d be giving him the chance of letting her down.
Alone was easier.
Even if it was lonely . . .
Rafe’s hand coasted lower on her arm until he reached her fingers and laced his through hers. “Do you feel that?” he asked, lifting their joined hands to her chest. Her pulse quickened and her heart thudded rapidly against her chest, the beat colliding against their hands. “My touch does this to you.”
“It does.” She couldn’t deny it. She wanted to, she wanted to retreat back into her comfort zone, secured and safe. But she couldn’t. Not when his touch thawed her insides and ignited flames on her skin at the same time.
Lifting her hand to his mouth, he carefully and slowly brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist, undulating a shiver that coursed through her entire body. It was as if that thin spot had a direct line to every sensitive, feminine part of her that was begging to come alive.
“I can do this for you too. I can be your distraction.”
The sweet, determined sway of his words melted a piece of her resolve that she’d been determined to withhold. Her body was her force of strength—her power. It gave her freedom and control, but when she was near him, her body became her weakness. The ascendancy her body had taught her to claim shattered beneath his touch.