Page 74 of Wild Thorns

The question hung in the air between us. Simple. Direct. Impossible.

Yes, my body screamed. God, yes.

No, said the voice that sounded like Marcus, the one that reminded me good women didn't want things like this. Good women didn't feel desire for one man while another's touch still lingered on their skin.

"I don't know," I whispered.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only honest one I have."

He was close now. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell that intoxicating woodsy scent and old books, and like his brothers... something wild. Something that made me think of the preserve at night, the darkness between the trees, the howls that rose under the full moon.

"Then let me ask a different question," he said. "If nothing else existed... no complications, no history, no consequences, would you want me to kiss you?"

I looked at him. At his serious eyes, his careful hands, the mouth I'd been trying not to stare at for weeks.

"Yes," I whispered.

And then his lips were on mine.

It was gentle at first. Just a brush of his mouth against mine, tentative and questioning. I could have pulled away. Should have pulled away.

Instead, I made a sound: soft, needy, embarrassing, and his hand came up to cup my face, and then it wasn't gentle anymore.

He kissed like he did everything else: with precision, with attention, with a focus so complete it felt like being the center of the universe. His other hand found my waist, pulling me closer, and I went willingly, sinking into the warmth of him.

His hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, palm hot against my bare skin, and I made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper. He laughed against my throat, a low, pleased rumble, and I felt it vibrate through my whole body.

"You're sensitive here," he murmured, teeth grazing my collarbone. "I'll remember that."

"You're taking notes?"

"I told you." His mouth found mine again, hot and demanding. "I’m observant."

The phrase echoed in my mind—I’m observant—and I remembered Callum saying the same thing about my coffee order. These fucking brothers. Three gorgeous sets of eyes giving me careful, focused attention.

Fuck.

I should be terrified. I should be running.

Instead, I pulled Eli closer and lost myself in the heat of him.

We backed up against the bookshelves. Something fell—a box of papers scattering across the floor—and neither of us cared. Eli's body pressed against mine, lean and warm and stronger than I'd expected. His hands explored with methodical precision: tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my lower back, finding every place that made me shiver.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed against my lips, "and I will."

"Don't stop."

He groaned, a sound that went straight to my core, and kissed me harder. His mouth trailed down my jaw, my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that made me arch against him. My hands found their way under his shirt, traced the smooth planes of his back, felt the muscles shift and flex beneath my palms.

He was all lean lines and controlled power. Where Jasper had been heat and urgency, Eli was slow fire building.

This is wrong, some distant part of my brain insisted. This is going to ruin everything.

I couldn't stop.

It was maddening, the way he catalogued my reactions. Like he was memorizing me for later study.