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He lifts his hand, brushes his thumb over my lips. He traces the outline of my mouth and his breathing quickens.
“Like chocolate,” he whispers. “You’re like a box of my favorite chocolates, and I can’t decide where to start.”
He bends his head until our lips are an inch apart, and his familiar, sexy scent surrounds me, the light musk of his clean sweat added to the heady mix.
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters. “Meg, tell me to stop.”
All I can do is shake my head. How can I, when all I want is for him to kiss me? When all I can think about is how delicious his mouth must taste?
His hand trails down my cheek to the side of my neck and I shiver all the way to my toes. He starts walking me backward, his other hand on my waist, a brand of fire I feel through the layers of cloth and skin down to my bones.
The moment my back hits the wall, he molds his body to mine, his hardness caught between us, his chest muscles shifting against me.
“God,” he groans and his hands slide up, until they frame my face. “I have to stop. Your boyfriend—”
“No boyfriend,” I whisper.
“But that guy—”
“Not my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.” The certainty in my voice finally gets through, and his gaze snaps up to mine, questioning, confused.
Then it’s like a switch has been flipped. One second he’s still as a statue, the next his hand slams next to my head and his mouth crushes on mine, the whole muscular expanse of his body covering mine, pushing me into the wall.
He tastes thrilling, intoxicating—like chicory and cinnamon, sugar and bitter almonds. His other hand slips around my head, cupping the back of my neck, holding me in place as he devours my mouth. His tongue licks me up, his teeth sink gently into my lower lip, and fireworks go off behind my eyes.
Every nerve in my body goes live under his assault, and my arms automatically curl around his neck as I kiss him back. My tongue dances against his, and he groans deep inside his chest, the vibrations rolling through me.
God, he feels so good. I want more, I want to touch more of him, his naked skin, I want to see the ink on his chest and arms, I want…
He breaks the kiss, pulls back, and I lean forward, needing more.
“Shit, Meg.” His harsh breathing fills my ears. “Why can’t I control myself around you?”
“Why would you want to control yourself around me?” The question that has been plaguing me.
> “You don’t need more violent men in your life.”
I study his expression. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, but there’s no hiding the worry lurking in their depths.
“You’re not a violent man.” He doesn’t seem like someone who enjoys making others suffer. In spite of his strength, he’s always gentle with me.
“You said this before, but you know nothing about me.” He still hasn’t released me, though. Hasn’t pulled away.
“I know you run every Sunday morning, early, because you can’t sleep. I know you take good care of your friends and that they’d do anything for you.” I dig my fingertips into the hard muscles of his neck, and he grunts, his pupils dilating, eating up the gold. “I know you train a lot and that you’re very strong. I also know you ran out of the coffee shop where I work Sundays because a loud noise startled you. What are you afraid of, Rafe Vestri?”
His expression closes off and he takes a step back, releasing me, his hand trailing on my shoulder before falling to his side. “Nothing.”
“Everyone is afraid of something.”
He doesn’t deny it. He’s silent, his gaze distant.
“You came to the coffee shop where I work— worked—every afternoon,” I whisper. “Why?”
He grunts. “Meg… Dammit. I was gonna take care of that.”
“What?” I don’t know what made me ask the question, but now I’m curious. “Take care of what?”
He sighs. “You have a stalker. I had a street kid follow you. It’s a guy with prison tats. I had to be there, make sure you were okay.”
