But then I remembered that I was mad at him, and the thrill faded. Donovan Kincaid had been an epic asshole. Not only that, but he’d been an epic asshole to me.
With a solemn expression and my eyes forward, I strutted toward my apartment. Even as I refused to look at him, though, I saw him. On the surface, he looked composed and put together like he always did, but there was something about his posture, something about the way his foot tapped and the way his jaw stuck out like it was flexed that suggested he was keyed up.
Well, that made two of us.
“That didn’t take long,” Donovan said when I stopped at my door and pulled my key from my purse.
So he thought I’d hooked up again with Weston. Maybe he actually had been the suit I’d seen outside the closet at Red Farm. Or he’d just put two and two together. He wasn’t dumb.
I wasn’t ready to admit anything, so I simply shrugged. Really, he had balls to bring it up. He had balls to even be here. The only reason he made it past the doorman was because he owned the building.
“You didn’t have your own key?” I asked, half joking as I stuck my key in the lock.
“I would have had to go home for that first,” he muttered.
I twisted my head back to look at him and found he was serious. He really had a key at his place? Wasn’t that something the building manager took care of? I felt twisted up inside to think that Donovan had the very real ability to walk into my place whenever he felt like it.
I felt even more twisted up to realize how near he was standing behind me, so near that another slight shift of my body would bring me into his arms. My eyes traced a path from his Adam’s apple up his throat and over his jawline to his mouth… Would he taste like sin and scotch, secrets and sweat?
What would it take to make me stupid enough to find out?
“Thank you, I guess, for waiting for me instead.” I pushed my shoulder against the door and stepped inside when it opened.
Surprise, surprise, he followed.
“By all means, come on in,” I said, switching on the light, not sure anymore if my irritation was feigned or real. I wanted him here—I just wanted him here for me, not for some other nonsensical agenda he’d concocted.
He closed the door with his foot and trailed behind me as I turned on lights and made my way to the coat closet.
“Are you going to tell me anything?” he asked while I hung my jacket on a hanger.
My eyebrows furrowed. “About Weston?” So that was honestly why he was here. I was irritated. And hurt, which was stupid. “You want all the details? Pictures too?”
I threw my purse on the dining room table and breezed past him into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I took a long cold swallow, imagining how good it would feel to throw the whole thing in Donovan’s face.
Correction—Donovan’s smug face. His shoulders had relaxed visibly in the past few seconds and his expression had gone from agitated to confident.
“Nothing happened, did it,” he said, like it was a statement, so sure he was of the answer.
Fuck him for being so sure.
And fuck him for being so ridiculously sexy while we were at it.
This was impossible. I was thirsty but not for what I was drinking. There was only one thing I wanted to taste on my lips, and if I couldn’t have that then I didn’t want anything.
I slammed the bottle on the counter, exasperated. “Why are you here?”
He crossed his arms in front of him. “Because I can’t not be. Are you going to meet up with him later?”
I considered dicking him around, but I was tired of the games. All of them—his and mine.
“I’m not,” I said. “But guess what. It’s not any of your business. None of this is. And yet you keep showing up, playing God like it’s your job. Thinking you know best what everybody wants.”
“You don’t want Weston.” Matter-of-fact. Plain light of day. No room for arguments. He said it like it was reality as we knew it.
And I about went off.
“Oh my god, I can’t…” With my hands to my heart, I pushed past him to get into the living room. I needed space. Did he even hear himself?
Spinning back toward him, I pointed accusatorily in his direction. “For weeks now you’ve been trying to convince me that I do want Weston.”
“Well, you don’t.” It was infuriating how calm he remained while both my head and my chest felt like they were going to explode.
“How do you know what I want?” My voice was louder than my neighbors would probably have preferred, but if they had a problem with it, they could take it up with the building’s owner. “You assume and assume and assume. You’ve never even bothered to ask!”
He came toward me so we were only an arm’s length apart. “What do you want, Sabrina?” he asked earnestly, his hazel eyes holding me captive. “Tell me.”
Weeks of torment and denial had built up inside me. Years of it. My skin itched on the inside, and the want of Donovan had grown so acutely sharp and specific. It didn’t even occur to me to try to lie or pretend that I didn’t know the answer. I could only think in terms of transparency and truth.
“I want you to touch me!” I cried, desperate and willing to lay it all on the line.
Donovan’s reflexes were quick. He grabbed one of my wrists in each hand and twisted one until it was pinned behind my back and bent the other until it was trapped between us.
“Touch you like this?” he asked brusquely, yanking my arms uncomfortably and pushing me until my back met the wall.
“No,” I said, meekly. Except I meant exactly like that.
It was just the way I’d been yearning for him to touch me. Like he controlled me. Like he owned me. My nipples were already tight knots.
He raised an eyebrow. “No? Because I can't touch you like Weston touches you.”
Jesus, I was so tired of hearing that name. Tired of that being the thing between us. Even now, Donovan had me against the wall but the only place we touched was where he held my hands. And everywhere around us, in the space between us, the imaginary being holding us away from each other was Weston.
“I don't want you to touch me like Weston,” I said, once and for all. “I don’t want Weston! I want you!”
Donovan let loose the smallest hint of a smile. “I know. I was waiting for you to know too.”
I had the impulse to slap him, but it was lost when his mouth crashed against mine. Then I couldn’t think about anything but him—his hands, his body, his victory over me.
It was such an easy surrender.
He took complete command. With the length of his body pressed against me, his erection pushing firmly at my pelvis, his lips molded mine. He sucked alternately on my bottom lip and then my top, leaving no part of my mouth untouched or untasted. When this wasn’t enough, he let go of one of my hands and grabbed a fistful of my hair in its place. Then he yanked my head back, opening my mouth wider. I let out a cry that he lapped up with a long swipe of his tongue.
I’d remembered this about him. I’d remembered that he’d been a kisser, and there was something validating about having the memory confirmed. Something surreal about living again a time that had only been lived through recollection for so long. Experiencing it for real with all of my senses fully engaged already had me wild.