sat there, in her clothes, with her glacial mask on, she was still burning for him.
His mind had been fresh with the memory of her in a blanket of cashmere, in his arms, his flesh
feeling tight and hot, his body pulsing and aching. The hunger to caress her had been so powerful it
nearly paralyzed him.
He hadn’t even been able to keep track of the conversation and was, like her, speechless and silent,
pretending to listen, when he would have done anything to seclude her in any nearby room with a lock,
and fuck her so long he’d be dry and she’d be raw and they’d both be bone-tired with exhaustion.
I love her.
The phrase beat like a refrain in his veins, his heart.
He’d always loved her, almost like a sister, as a great friend. But he was not her brother, and they
were no longer friends. He’d buried the deeper, more tumultuous emotions she stirred inside of him by
staying away, giving her the distance she’d asked for. All it had taken was a sexual touch to shake him
to his bones, to confirm to him that his intent all these years, of seeking so many women so he could
resist one, had utterly failed.
Nobody was her.
When he’d seen her in those cashmere blankets, her body exposed for dozens of eyes to see, he’d
been shaken by pure possessiveness and the need to cover her, shield her, protect her from one and all.
She belonged to him. She always had.
She’d run from love, had run from him, when she’d been nineteen and he twenty-three, when for
every night for almost two months, they’d been as close as Siamese twins. He didn’t want to push her
away this time, make her feel the threat of the one emotion she had been fighting her whole life not to
feel. But he knew her weakness.
Because he was it.
Monica’s aloofness had never worked on him. It never would. He’d been inside her, deep where it
hurt, long before she’d put up those walls of ice she built, and she’d locked him up with her.
Yeah, he’d known how afraid she was. And he’d stood back, a part of him as scared shitless as she
was. He’d done nothing when she dated the first middle-aged guy he knew, or the second. They didn’t
pose a threat, and she’d used the pretext of the press being on top of their relationship to keep Daniel
away. He hadn’t pressured. He had, in fact, rebelled against the way she made him feel. He’d branded
his tattoo right above his heart, a challenge to any who so much as tried to trap him. But he’d watched
her from afar, telling himself she was a friend, she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her, and he did not want
her.
Like hell.
He wanted her more than air, more than water. In many ways, they were alike, understanding each
other in an intrinsic way that needed few words to be spoken, but in the most fundamental way, they
were polar opposites. She had a part of her that needed to be fitted by a part of him … and their bodies
were throbbing to make it happen.
Even during the board meeting, the memory of their previous tangle in the throws lingered in her
eyes, in the way she crossed her arms and rubbed herself.
They were so wound up today, he fucking knew he should’ve stayed last night, and held her like
before, when the poke of her nipples through her nightgown against his chest had been the thrill of his
young existence. Sometimes he’d take a cool shower before he knocked on her door, so he could listen
to her and not feel electrified every time her breath hit his neck. Even then, it had been haunting,
overpowering, the need to comfort her, hold her.… He’d been thinking of fucking kissing her for days,
weeks, years. He’d never imagined she wouldn’t want him.
After that, he’d spoiled his poor rejected cock but he definitely, definitely, never again thought with
it. He had always been a man of precise intellect, perhaps even ruthless intellect.
But never with her.
He slammed a fist into the elevator wall and groaned. The temptation to go up there and apologize
gnawed at his gut, but he couldn’t. He was too proud, too angry. He’d never been second place to
anyone, much less to a man like Roland. He’d never been used for sex. He’d been the one who used
and discarded, who commanded and was obeyed.
Cursing under his breath, knowing he couldn’t talk to her until he calmed the fuck down and it was
going to take a fucking long while, he went outside and listened to the pounding rain, and he pulled
out his cell phone and snapped at his driver to bring the car around. In the meantime, he stepped out
and let the cool rain smack him in an attempt to get rid of his infernal boner, which had tormented him
ever since he’d seen her with that cashmere wrapped around her slender body.