I lick the melted ice cream off the spoon and wrinkle my nose as a distraction.
“Are you trying to seduce me again?” he asks, a faint smile on his lips.
“Want the truth?” I ask, sticking the spoon in the bowl.
“Sure.”
My throat feels thick as I hesitate. “I couldn’t seduce you if I tried.”
Although I meant it, he doesn’t seem to think so. And the embarrassment I expected to feel—the mortification I was counting on to disable the moment—isn’t there.
He laughs, but not at me. His grin isn’t at my expense. Instead, it feels like the two of us are on the same side of a joke or story. Together. Which is not what I had in mind.
This was supposed to be a wedge between us, not a glue.
Damn it.
“Do you believe that?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. For sure. I don’t know anything about seducing someone.”
His chuckle is gritty as he sits back again. Even though it’s only an extra few inches between us, I’m grateful for it. I need it. I need to disable the explosion ticking inside my body.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I say.
“Oh, sugar. I’m not laughing at you.”
I point my spoon at him. “Yes, you are.”
“Why do you act like it’s impossible for you to seduce me?”
I want to say, “Because you’re you and I’m me.” That I don’t have the experience or confidence to go after a man who obviously doesn’t need me. I want to explain that I wouldn’t know where to start at actually trying to attract someone like him. But I don’t say that because it’s humiliating and probably fairly obvious.
My spoon clinks as it hits the china. I get to my feet, cheeks pink, and head to the sink. I’m rinsing the bowl when he speaks again.
“Are you going to answer me?” he asks.
“No.”
I think he laughs again, but I don’t turn around to make sure.
“Do you know what I find seductive?” he asks.
My body stills. I try to shake my head, but it barely moves.
The chair squeaks as he gets up. The legs scratch against the hardwood as if he’s pushing it in.
“Kindness,” he says. “Humor. Class. Beauty.”
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “So not lingerie and sweet nothings whispered in your ear?” I joke.
“Hardly. Underpromising and overdelivering are what turns me on.”
I gulp. “Good to know.”
“What turns you on, Sophie?”
“That sounds like a loaded question.”
He stands behind me. I can’t feel him or see him, but I definitely am aware of his presence. The energy bouncing off him collides with my back and almost whirls me around to face him.
I shut the water off and grip the edge of the sink.
“It’s not,” he says. “So, answer it. Please.”
The added “please,” filled with sweet sarcasm, makes me grin.
I should answer with some self-deprecating mishmash of qualities and then slip outside for some fresh air. I’m in quicksand and I know it. But instead of grasping at a branch overhead and trying to pull myself up and out like any rational person would do, I just breathe evenly. Slowly. And then, with deliberate movements, I turn around to face him.
His eyes are hooded, his teeth nibbling at the corner of his lip. The locks of hair that have fallen on his forehead are darker, the shadows against his skin broodier. The testosterone that ripples off his body and pummels mine is intense and intoxicating, and I grab the counter behind me to keep steady.
“This is doing it for me,” I say, my gaze pinning his.
He seems to be as surprised that I said that as I am. His brows shoot upward before his mouth dissolves into the sexiest, most “You sure you want this, Sophie?” smirk that I’ve ever seen.
“You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman,” he says.
“Who are you kidding? You’ve dangled spit in my face before. You’re hardly a gentleman.”
His chuckle tugs my laugh along with it. He wipes a hand down his angled jaw and watches me from a couple of steps back.
My body hums under his attention. And while I’m usually second-guessing things at this point in the game—Does he just want to get laid? Does he specifically want to sleep with me? What will this mean, if anything, if we act on all this?—I’m as cool as a cucumber.
Maybe it’s because I know this might be over sooner than I even really thought. Maybe I just want this one memory of him.
As his tongue slips along his bottom lip, I sigh.
Maybe it’s simply that I’m only human and I want that tongue on me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SOPHIE
He drops his hand. “In normal situations, I’d construe your behavior as consent. But this is not a normal situation, and you are not a normal woman.”
I lift a brow. He grins.
“What do you want to hear?” I ask.
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. I think I might explode.
“Is that a trick question?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“So ‘you panting my name’ would be a sufficient answer?”
I snort. “Trash answer, Doc.”
He shrugs. “Look, I’m not functioning on all my brain cells right now. Thinking with two heads is hard.”
“Especially if they’re both hardheaded.”
He flashes me a look, making me giggle.
“Look, maybe this isn’t the right thing after all.” I start to turn around, but he cages me against the counter with both hands.
His breathing is shallow, his body warm as it almost touches mine. I stand still and wonder if he can hear the speed of my blood roaring through my veins.
If I moved, even a little bit, our skin would make contact, and that would be it for me. I’d dissolve on the spot. But I don’t twitch a muscle, and neither does he. He doesn’t even flutter those ridiculous lashes.
“I want this to be the right thing,” he says. “But I don’t want to complicate things between us.”
I search his eyes for the truth. It’s not hidden; it’s right there on the surface.
He wants me as much as I want him. That feeling alone is heady as fuck. But there’s also a stroke of concern, of care and caution, because he’s looking at me. And while that should make me rethink whether this is a good decision, it instead makes me want him that much more.
There will never be another Holden McKenzie waltzing into my life. There aren’t many men like him. I know that’s a fact. And while it might be a good thing in its own way, it also makes it an opportunity. One that I don’t want to pass up.
“Things are already kind of tangled up, aren’t they?” I ask.
He grins. “Does this mean you want me?”
My legs ache. The apex of my thighs burns. My stomach squeezes so hard I nearly yelp for mercy.
I reach out and touch his cheek. A smattering of stubble dots his skin. The coarseness of it against my palm is the final shot to my libido.
I look him in the eye and smile. “Only if you agree that I wasn’t the one trying to seduce you.”
He leans forward, his breath hot against my neck. “But you were.”