“Get the hell away from me.”
Hissing the words, she planted her palms on his chest and shoved him, with surprising strength for someone so petite. He took a step back, but said nothing. Seeing her about to walk out the door, his only instinct had been to stop her. And the next instinct after that was to kiss her. Because there was something about angry Jacinda that erased every bit of sense he had. There were spots of color in her cheeks, and fire in her eyes, and all he could think of was the night before, when she’d been alight for a different reason. Now her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing, and he couldn’t help but look, remembering how it had felt to bury his face in those incredible curves. But she huffed out a breath and pulled her cardigan around herself.
“Nice. You’re all class, Liam.”
He looked at the ceiling, trying not to think about how she was wearing the same short skirt as the day she got stuck under the house, and whether the red lace panties were underneath. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his loose cargo shorts, hoping to obscure the growing evidence of his thoughts.
But she wasn’t fooled. She looked pointedly at his crotch, then back at him. “This is exactly the kind of shit I left behind in LA.”
Unreasonably, given what he’d just said and done (and what he’d done the night before), the idea of anyone trying to take advantage of her suddenly fired him with Neanderthal anger. It might be a charmed life, but yes, he could imagine the kind of sleaziness that went on behind the scenes in that business. And that wasn’t him. “I’m not that guy.”
She raised a cynical eyebrow. “Really?”
Okay, sneaking out was a shitty move. But up until then, she’d been along for the ride with him, if he remembered right. And hell, did he remember. There was nothing sleazy about the way she’d kissed him, run her hands over him, wrapped herself around him…
“You didn’t think I was so bad last night,” he said.
She raised herself up. “I wasn’t the one who ran out.”
Then he remembered all the other stuff. All the reasons why he’d left her there, soft and perfect in the dark, were still true. And there was one more thing he shouldn’t forget—she was the one who left first, years ago. She’d run out, back to the States, and that was where she should have stayed. For everyone’s sake.
“Yeah, that was me,” he replied, the words passing out of him before he had time to weigh their impact. “But you ran out on us first.”
Her face hardened, and they held each other’s eyes, a charge of something dangerous heating up the room.
“You’re such an asshole,” she told him.
He felt the hard-edged words strike, but didn’t let himself flinch. It was better this way. He should never have gone over there last night, full of his father’s Glenfiddich, condoms in his pocket, the loneliness of the past loosening his tongue. And he shouldn’t have told her that he’d wanted her, all those summers ago—that was something he’d never wanted her to know. Ever. But apparently he was as weak as the next man when pinned underneath a luscious, willing woman.
And here was that woman, tiny but tough, calling him on his bullshit. But now, behind the steel, he could see the hurt. And to be hurt, she must have felt something. The possibility sparked a tiny light in his heart—and scared the shit out of him. Getting entangled with the girl who caused Ethan’s death? On top of every other reason not to, it would kill his mother.
So yeah, maybe he was an asshole, but it was better to cut it off in the dead of night, than face her in the morning and explain. If she hated him, it took the battle out of his hands. No more fighting with himself about whether, maybe, somehow, she could be his. Because if he hadn’t been so self-indulgently obsessed with her that summer, he wouldn’t have been secretly pleased that she’d left Ethan. He would have gone looking for his brother earlier. And his family would still be in one piece.
When he didn’t reply, she rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I felt sorry for you last night.”
“You screwed me out of pity?”
He should care, but in truth, he didn’t. That wouldn’t have stopped him last night—and not her either, it seemed. With a jolt of arousal, he remembered her wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him down into her, deep and hard and determined.
She curled her lip. “Well, why did you screw me?”
Coming from her beautiful mouth, the word sounded rough and dirty, and he hardened even more. Jesus, he was an asshole.
As though she could see it on his face, she looked down at his shorts again. Busted. But before she could deliver the inevitable take-down, he stepped blindly forward.
One more kiss, one more taste.
One last screwed-up, desperate grab at what could never be.
But she didn’t slap him down. Instead, with a resigned, syrupy ‘Oh, God’, she seemed to melt in his arms. He seized the moment—no questions, no hesitation. He’d take whatever she was willing to give…which seemed to be more than he expected. As he pulled her closer, her head tipped back, her eyes heavy with surrender and anticipation as they met his.
He still had no fucking idea what he was doing, and he might be an idiot, but at least he was smart enough not to waste time analyzing this turn of events.
But as he dropped his head to kiss her, something caught his eye over her shoulder—Ethan’s guitar on its stand, silently condemning him. Ah, fuck. He turned her around so that his back was to the room, and hers was against the bi-fold doors. Outside was the empty, moon-hushed garden where they’d played as kids, then hung out as teenagers. From innocence to infatuation, then disaster. But inside, here in front of him, was the woman she’d become. Still with the unbelievable breasts, the diamond-blue eyes, and the hourglass curves. But now—even barefoot and unadorned—there was a world-weary edge to her beauty that made her even more compelling.
Connor was right—how could she get any sexier?
Finally, he kissed her. As her lips parted, her fingers dug into his back, and her breasts pressed against him. She angled her hips closer—one deep breath from either of them and she’d be hard up against the erection she’d scorned him for minutes ago. Amazing how things change. After a moment she broke the kiss, but stayed close, holding the back of his t-shirt.
“We are not doing this again,” she said into his chest, as he hitched up her skirt.
“No.”
For once they were agreeing on something.
She twisted slightly, helping the denim rise, and then he could see…not the red panties, but their black lace equivalent. He breathed out a groan and slipped his hand inside them, and she parted her legs slightly, letting him in. Oh, yeah. As his fingers found the small, hot center of her desire, she raised herself up on tiptoe, and slowly, slowly, he started to stroke. A low moan escaped her lips, and she leaned her head back against the glass, her eyes closed.
He had to smile. However mad she was at him, her body was on his side.
As he watched her reaction to his teasing fingers, the lust and waiting and anger and every-damn-thing suddenly coalesced into a rush of primal craving. He fell and pressed his face to her sweet center, lace against his forehead, her scent overtaking him as she threaded her fingers in his hair. Back then, he’d worshipped her from afar. Right now, he was literally on his knees…and he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
He eased the panties down, and she stood still, but he could hear her breathing in the quiet room. At seventeen, despite the epic force of his crush, he wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with her. But now he did. Now he knew exactly what to do…if she’d let him.
He looked up. “So…we’re not doing this?”
“Shut up,” she said, her voice husky.
So he did. For half a second, he considered what kind of a view it would be for anyone who wandered into the dark garden. But then her fingers tightened on the back of his head, just the tiniest bit. Message received. He tugged at the black lace and let it fall around her feet, and she kicked the panties away.
He ran his hands around the back of her thighs, and held the place where they curved into the softness of her backside. Jesus, she was all curves and temptation. And right in front of him was the ultimate temptation—the sweet, secret place that she’d let him into the night before. The memory sent him into sudden overdrive, and he surrendered.
She curved toward him as his tongue played against her heat, small, incoherent sounds falling from her lips, each one a benediction. God help him, there was nothing holy about his desire, or the things he wanted to do to her, but right now hers was the only saving he needed. He clutched her bottom and buried his face between her legs, losing and finding himself in her breathy exclamations, her beautiful abandon.
Nothing else existed.
But then he felt her tense, and she put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back. He looked up, dragging himself back to reality. Then he followed her gaze.
She was looking at the guitar.
Shit. He stood up, pressing his forearm against his lips, damp with her sweetness. There was no point asking what was wrong. Without meeting his eye, she worked the denim skirt back down over her hips, then picked up the panties and stuffed them in her pocket.
He started to say something, anything, but she silenced him with a look. “Don’t.”
When he tried again, she shook her head.
“We both know why. It’s the same reason you snuck out last night.”
Then she turned and opened the door, and went out into the night, leaving him with her lush scent on his face, a colossal hard-on, and a burning urge to smash the goddamn guitar to pieces.