“I’m not hiding.” With a hand on my hip, I lift my chin over my shoulder. “Respect my wishes, Trace.”
His jaw hardens, and he storms around me, walking in fast, angry strides deeper into the closet. With his back to me, he kicks off his loafers, and they land in the vicinity of his orderly shoe rack. His breaths heave furiously as he yanks off his suit jacket and whips it toward the hamper.
He’s beyond pissed, and I know I’m not going to win this. So I turn around and quickly change into the shirt and panties.
That done, I shift back and find him slipping on a pair of navy boxer briefs over his hips, the long length of his spine taut with frustration.
He pivots to face me, and our eyes lock. Uncertainty trickles over my skin, and I wrap my arms around my waist.
Whatever he sees in my expression causes his posture to go from self-assured to anxious. He rubs the back of his neck and shifts from one foot to the other.
Then he drops his arms, holding them out to his sides. “Come here.”
At some point over the past six months, scowly Trace Savoy, with his knotted necktie and starched personality, negotiated his way into my heart. He’s given me a whole new perspective on asshole—a perspective that makes me appreciate the rare glimpses of his vulnerability. Like when he stands before me with his arms out, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and naked tenderness.
Like now.
I step into his waiting arms and hug his firm waist, breathing in the masculine scent of his bare chest.
He inhales slowly, deeply, as if it’s the first gulp of air he’s taken in months.
“Are you hungry?” He strokes my hair, twining his fingers affectionately through the strands.
“I ate during my break a couple hours ago.”
Without warning, he lifts me, holding me in the cradle of his arms as he carries me out of the closet and tumbles us onto his bed. He lands atop me with his hips wedged between my legs and his heart thundering against mine.
Together, we toss the decorative pillows to the floor and wriggle until the bedding is kicked out of the way. Then it’s just him and me and the kiss that’s been brewing beneath every word we exchanged in the closet.
His lips move sensually against my mouth, his tongue rubbing and teasing and coaxing mine to dance. I cling to his biceps, loving his weight on me, the feel of his tall, muscled frame pressing down and pinning us in the moment.
Our legs entwine instinctively, and his hands return to my hair, rougher now than before, yanking at the roots as he controls the pace of the kiss. Deeper, harder, he eats at my mouth with fervor, angling our heads and fitting us perfectly together.
The thick, heavy length of him grinds against the crotch of my panties, but he doesn’t thrust or try to remove the barriers between us. Thank God, because my willpower is plummeting quick.
He seems to sense that and eases back, positioning us on our sides, chest to chest. His large pupils, hooded eyes, and labored breaths all signal his desire. If I looked down, I’d find his underwear tented.
I’m torturing him, and the thought clenches my chest.
There’s nothing wrong with a little abstinence, but I feel guilty about it. I feel like a damn tease.
“I don’t like this…this distance between us.” I run my fingers over the sculpted lines of his face, relishing the scratch of his five o’clock shadow.
“It’s temporary.” He tucks my hair behind my ear.
“How temporary? It’s already been a week. I need to—”
He touches a finger against my lips. “Don’t force it. You’re not in a race, and I’m not going anywhere.”
I grip his hand and lace our fingers together between us. “You’re okay with this? Starting over and dating and stuff?”
“Stuff?” He casts me a smoldering look. “I’m interested in hearing more about that.”
“I mean it, Trace. Where’s your head at on all of this?”
“The situation is less than ideal, but it’s a hell of a lot better than you starting over without me.” His mouth twitches, and he nudges his thigh between mine, inching us closer. “I can handle the competition.”
I wish his confidence would rub off on me, because I’m feeling pretty sucky about my indecisiveness. “Who were you with before you came home tonight?”
His eyes darken. “Cole.”
All that time? And they didn’t kill each other? My curiosity is wildly piqued as I try to picture them hanging out together. “Where were you guys? For hours?”
“In my office.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking.”
“No more curt answers, dammit. What did you talk about?”
“Things.” His eyes glimmer.