He moved again, cautiously, slowly, as though she were some small animal of prey and he was afraid of startling her.
“Not another step,” she warned, hating how her voice shook, how weak she must appear right now.
“No.” He nodded yes as though she had not disagreed and closed the distance between them until the flat of her hand met his chest and stopped him. “I’m sorry, Aurelia. I was young and stupid.”
“You’re still stupid,” she charged, her voice cracking, making her feel weak and equally senseless.
He brought a hand up to cup her face, and the tenderness undid her. His thumb stroked her cheek. “I am. I know it.”
She closed her eyes at the sensation of his hand on her face, but it did no good. She could still see him looking down at her tenderly. “Stop looking at me like I’m something pathetic to be pitied.”
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
She complied. He cupped her face, fingers spearing through her hair as he pinned her with a stark-eyed gaze. “Never. I’ve never pitied you. It’s not possible. You’re not pitiable.”
Her chest clenched. She shook her head, completely flummoxed. He wasn’t supposed to be this. He wasn’t supposed to be gentle and kind and sincere. He wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a rakehell who burned a path through the hearts and bedrooms of women everywhere. And he was not supposed to touch her anymore, affecting her and making her want him in a way she could never have him.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair that he could be this way. The hot dash of tears tripped down her cheeks. He caught her tears with his fingers in an attempt to rub her cheeks dry. She fought a sob but it escaped, a choked, strangled sound.
“Don’t cry, Aurelia,” he soothed, still sliding those blunt-tipped fingers over her tear-damp cheeks.
“What are you doing? Please . . . don’t touch me.”
“I’m sorry.” He pressed butterfly kisses to her cheeks. “I can’t . . .”
She sniffed, hating and loving his tender ministrations. But it had to stop. It was tearing her apart and wrecking her resolve.
“You can. We have to stop this.” She circled his wrists with her fingers and tried to tug his hands down. He wouldn’t budge his grip.
He dragged warm lips over the moist tear tracks on her face, ignoring her words and offering the intimacy that made her stomach heat and flutter.
“Stop,” she whispered as his mouth inched toward the corner of hers.
Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. She trembled from the restraint of not lifting her chin that tiny inch and kissing him.
He had no such qualms.
He settled his mouth over hers, his lips loose and open, but not a true kiss.
“You don’t want me to stop,” he said against her mouth, lips grazing ever so slightly and spiking sensation straight to every nerve.
“I know.” The two words forced her lips to brush against his in a close simulation of a kiss. And perhaps she over-exaggerated the movement, savoring the tantalizing sensation of his mouth. His warm, dry lips softer than she ever thought possible. A shudder racked her.
“Good,” he rasped. “Because for three days I’ve only thought of you. Of this mouth. The things I want to do to it . . . the things I want to teach it.”
She moaned softly and his mouth claimed hers. Seized. Completely. Totally. No more tentative dancing around it.