Megan was a practical woman. Realistic, Connor reassured himself as he grabbed a suit from his closet and packed a quick bag. She needed some space to get over her hurt. And then tomorrow—damage control.
Change of plan. He couldn’t afford the distance he’d been putting between them right now. So he’d close in again. Just a little. Just enough.
Bag packed, he shook out his hands and headed downstairs.
Megan was in the kitchen. He knew she wanted away from him, and yet he couldn’t stop from following the sounds of the refrigerator door closing, the clink of glass against granite, the quiet gurgle of pouring wine.
Rounding the corner, he found her standing against the counter, her glass sitting untouched beside her as she waited for him.
“Do you have everything?” she asked. Polite. Detached. Exactly the kind of considerate inquiry his ideal wife would offer.
Hollow. Too damn hollow to be coming from the woman he married.
“Almost.” He crossed to her in a single stride, pulling her into him and taking what was inevitably intended to be a protest for the opportunity it was.
Upturned face.
Parted lips.
The good-night kiss he couldn’t leave without.
Only, Megan’s lips were stiff and unyielding. She didn’t pull away. It might almost have been better if she had. Instead, she’d allowed the kiss to occur, taking it with the same cool detachment offered in her words.
That wasn’t how it was between them, and he might be a jerk for pressing the point tonight, but if he was going to give her the space to think, he wanted to be damn sure he’d left her with something to think about.
He brushed his lips back and forth against hers, knowing she thought to simply ride it out. Tolerate the intimacy. But rather than give up, he pulled her closer, sliding his hand up the silky expanse of her bare back to her neck. Burying his fingers in the soft strands of gold and gently coaxing her back, he deepened the kiss, licking softly into her mouth.
At her teeth, the corner of her mouth, her soft, wet tongue.
She didn’t want to respond. Didn’t want to give him anything. And still, he could feel the catch of her breath across his lips. The pull of her mouth against his when, on a weak moan, she surrendered.
“Megan,” he groaned, holding her tight.
Her tongue rolled softly with his, her mouth drawing at him. Taking. Giving. Until all the cold space was charged with the same current that had been running between them from the very first night—until he knew, even though he was leaving, this would stay with her.
When he pulled back, Megan wouldn’t look at him, but he could see the red flush of her cheeks.
Her hand fluttered over her lips, and she shook her head, finally meeting his eyes with the glittering rage of her own. “Have you ever stopped yourself from taking more than someone wanted to give?”
Her words shocked him. “That’s not—”
But her hand flew up, cutting him off as the first damning tear slid down her cheek—and suddenly there was nothing he could say. No defense. All he could do was watch as she disappeared around the corner in a swirl of dove-gray silk—knowing that lack of will on his part was going to cost him serious ground.
* * *
She had no defense against him.
Even seeing him coming. Bracing herself against his advance. Megan hadn’t stood a chance.
She’d crumbled beneath the assault of his kiss, praying he’d say something to make her feel better—to convince her things were other than they were—clinging to the very man she desperately needed to leave.
Only, Connor was exactly who she thought he was.
A man who could turn his feelings on and off with the flick of a switch.
A man who could walk away without a backward glance.
A man who could leave one woman and, in the span of a few days, move on to the next.
He was exactly the kind of man she’d sworn never to allow herself to be susceptible to again. And as if she’d been hardwired to seek out his special brand of abuse, she’d married him within hours of meeting.