What about what you said...”
“I was just trying to justify how I was feeling about you.”
He had feelings? Oh boy.
“The truth is, I think about you all the time. I want to be with you all the time. Mrs. Franklin brought me that book, and I used it as an excuse to show up at your door at ten o’clock on a Saturday night.” He smiled. “It probably could have waited, but something about you, and the Kama Sutra, made me get in my car and slam the pedal down.”
“You don’t understand. This book was a gift from Callie. She said I needed to learn how to....”
He raised a brow, waiting for her to continue, obviously mentally filling in the blank. When she didn’t speak, he prompted her. “How to?”
“Be intimate,” she admitted, her voice little more than a whisper.
He didn’t tease her, didn’t make assumptions that she automatically meant physical intimacy. Because the Kama Sutra was about a lot more than that. It was a little dated, a little sexist, but the entire piece had many valid things to say about loving, sensual relationships, and not all of it was about sex.
“You have trouble being intimate with people?”
She swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to admit to him what she had admitted to so few people in her life. “I have trouble allowing myself to be intimate with people. I don’t invite them in.”
“I see,” he replied, coming ever closer. And then closer still. Until his shoes nearly touched the tips of her bare toes. “The thing is, Lindsey, I think you want to invite me in.”
She didn’t have the courage to respond to that.
His long, strong leg brushed against hers, which was covered only by the silky robe. Beneath it, she wore a short, flirty nightgown that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, and a long length of leg was revealed by the gap in the robe. The brush of his pants on her bare limbs was enough to make her weak and breathless, a little light-headed.
“Always in control,” he murmured, his tone even, soothing. “Always sure of what you want and what you’re doing...is that it?”
“That’s some of it,” she admitted, slowly nodding. She couldn’t understand why her head felt full of cotton. Why was a response so hard to grasp? She may have been confused about what to say, but she was not at all confused about what she felt: desire.
“I suppose I should ask why. Maybe ask if that’s what the box is about—you always being in control and never having to let anyone get close enough to give you what you need,” he said, lifting a hand and rubbing the back of it along the V-neck of her robe. His knuckles brushed lightly across her skin, a touch as fleeting as it was evocative. Her nerve endings sang, every inch of her in tune to him.
Lindsey swallowed, feeling the excitement in the air, seeing it in his eyes, hearing it in his voice. She had no doubt he’d read that book before bringing it back, was certain he’d envisioned doing some of those things—or all of those things—with her. The tension between them had been undeniable and hot from the moment they’d met on the ferry, and they’d been shoving it away for days, with excuses and justifications.
That was all about to end, though.
Somehow, all the reasons she’d provided, all the excuses, the pithy rationale for steering clear of him, fell away. They didn’t matter anymore. Because, somewhere along the way, while they’d danced this dance of yes-and-no, maybe-and-never, I-want-you-and-I-can’t-have-you, she’d stopped wanting to steer clear of him. Stopped saying no, I can’t have you, and never. At least in her mind.
Lindsey was a scientist, a psychologist. She understood why people did the things they did. She hadn’t just been avoiding any involvement with Mike, or anyone else she met, during this “down” period in her life. She’d done the exact same thing during the “up” periods of her life, too. Even when things had been good, when her job had been rolling along and she’d had great money, a nice home, a promising future, she still hadn’t allowed herself to really let down her guard with any man. Ever.
Warning Mike off hadn’t been about wanting to protect her reputation or hide from the mess her life had become. It had really been about her need to stay in control.
She pushed people away. It was what she did, what she’d always done. Probably because she had gotten so used to being pushed and shoved and left to feel unimportant throughout her younger years. It had become a habit. She’d built walls long before she’d met Mike on that ferry to this place. Even though she’d sometimes lowered the walls to have sex with men, she’d never dropped them low enough to explore true intimacy, the kind that involved utter trust.
Hadn’t that been why Callie had given her that book?
And how interesting that it had ended up in Mike Santori’s hands, when he was the one man she’d met in, oh, forever, who she could really like. Admire. Trust.
The question was, would she trust him enough to be vulnerable, to give up her control and allow a man to get past her defenses to the real her?
“Let me be blunt, Lindsey,” he whispered, moving closer, until she felt his lips brushing her earlobe and his warm breaths coating her neck. “I’ll want answers later. But right now, I really don’t give a damn about who you are and why you travel with twenty sexy toys.” His hand moved to her waist and he cupped it tightly, his fingertips stroking the curve of her bottom, tugging her even closer.
“You don’t?”
“No.” A tongue on her throat. “I just want to help you play with them.”
She moaned softly, shocked, intrigued, so incredibly turned on by his blatant admission. He was through playing games, no longer toying—so to speak—with innuendo and suggestion.
He also wasn’t finished.
“So why don’t you drop that book and take me to your bedroom?”
She barely had time to let that command-masquerading-as-a-suggestion sink in before he was kissing her, his mouth hot and hard, open and hungry on hers. His tongue plunged deep, demanding everything she had, as if she was a land to be explored and he a conqueror. Every part of him made demands of her—his hands, his mouth, his words, his movements—and everything about her should have rebelled.
But nothing did. Nothing.
She simply did as he commanded. She dropped the book and melted into him, twining her arms around his neck, digging her fingers into his hair, holding him tight. She thrust her tongue against his, sucking, biting, begging. The kiss was as good as last week’s, only ten times hotter, more frenzied. Maybe that was because they knew that this time he wasn’t going to walk out the door with a raging hard-on, and she wasn’t going to go to bed and have a wet dream about what they might have done.
This time, they would do it all.
Their bodies molded together, her softness welcoming all his wonderfully hard places. She dug her nails into his shoulder, feeling the play of muscle beneath her fingers and delighting in his raw strength. Every inch of him was masculine, the perfect counterpoint to her feminine, and she reveled in it.
“Admit how much you want this,” he groaned against her mouth.
He didn’t let her respond, didn’t wait for her to answer, as if wanting her to admit it only to herself. Instead he thrust his tongue deep, in and out, making love to her mouth. Each stroke was accompanied by a thrust of his hips that put her in hard contact with the enormous ridge of heat tenting the front of his trousers.
She wanted that heat. Desperately. Mindlessly.
She wanted to rip his pants open and drop to her knees and put her lips and tongue on him like the illustration in that book. She longed to taste him until he came in her mouth, leaving him bone-dry and weak. And after she swallowed down some of that power, taking it for herself, maybe then she could be sure he was just as vulnerable,