Page 11 of Hidden With You

“You watched me?”

“I already told you I did.”

“Right. You did.” I’m flustered, and I’m afraid it shows. “I just meant—oh, hell, I don’t know what I meant.”

“You mean that I watched you.” He slides a bit closer as he speaks. “I wasn’t listening to the questions or the answers. I wasn’t translating the sounds you made into words. I was just watching. You bewitched me, I think.”

His cheek dimples when he smiles, something I hadn’t noticed from far away since he sports a closely shaved beard. Right now, I’m obsessed with that tiny, kissable indentation, and it’s taking all my strength not to reach out and touch it. Instead, I repeat, “bewitched,” because it’s the only word that has lingered in my head. And because at the moment it seems pretty damn apropos.

He shifts slightly, and his denim-covered knee strokes my bare one, this new movement sending an arrow of heat up my thigh and right to my core. I bite my lip, fighting to restrain a shudder of sensual pleasure right through me.

Maybe he’d bewitched me, too.

I clear my throat. “Funny,” I say, trying to make my voice sound casual. “I didn’t notice you at all.”

His grin is slow, sexy, and ridiculously tempting. “Liar.”

“I am,” I say. “I’m an expert at weaving lies. Better be careful.”

He reaches up and strokes the pad of his thumb along my jawline. “I’m always careful.”

“I—I don’t even know your name.” I’m on sensory overload. The way our knees are brushing. The lingering sensation of his thumb on my face. And now his hand is on my other knee, the tips of his fingers on the bare skin of my thigh.

I fight a ragged breath even as I fantasize about him sliding his hand higher up my leg. The short dress is designed for standing, and I’m showing far too much thigh as I sit like this. It would be so easy for his fingers to sneak under the dress. To tug aside the tiny thong I wore to avoid panty lines. I’m wet just thinking about it, and right then, that’s all I want. For him to touch and tease me until I’m open and begging. For him to lay me down on this bench, yank my skirt up, and pound himself into me.

I want the excitement. The release.

I want the danger.

I want what I want, and then I want it to be over. Itch scratched. Time to move on.

That oh-so-common story, and one I seem to write over and over in the novel of my life. People leave. That’s just the truth of it. They bring me joy, then take what they want. They suck me dry, then they leave.

Better to expect it. To relish the part that I want, then forget the part that I don’t.

To not get close so as to not get hurt.

Even better, be the taker. Be the leaver. Because there’s a hell of a lot less heartache that way.

Do it, I tell myself. And then, before I change my mind, I put one hand on his, then ease his fingers up under my skirt. “Higher,” I whisper as I cup my other hand around his neck, then pull his mouth down to mine. He doesn’t resist. On the contrary, he makes this kiss his, claiming me with his mouth even as his fingers tease the inside of my thigh, so close to heaven, but still so far.

I want to beg, but his kiss is too deep, his hold on my head too tight. I squirm, silently begging for more, but even as I do, he’s lifting me by the waist and settling me on his lap. The dress rides up, leaving my ass exposed, and he cups my butt cheek with one hand while his other hand fists my shoulder-length hair. It’s wild and intense, and exactly what I need. Heat and lust and a pleasure so intense it will drown out everything else.

“Please,” I murmur against his mouth. I rock my hips, feeling his erection through his jeans as my fingers go to the button of his fly. “Please.”

He squeezes my ass, then twists the band of my thong, pulling it up from the back and making the material rub against my clit. I grind against him, wanting more, wanting to feel him inside me. Knowing this is too fast, and not caring in the least. He captured me from the first moment I saw him, and everything about this evening has been leading up to this connection, this building passion, this—

“No.”

The vile word is a whisper against my lips, then he pulls back, breathing hard. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “But no.”

I try to grasp hold of reality, certain I understood him wrong. “You want this,” I say, certain of the desire I see in his eyes. “We both do.”

“Desperately.”

“Then why?”

“Zelda.” He says my name flatly, as if the answer was obvious. But, of course, it’s not.