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The reality of what he’d said at the table was hitting me like a ton of bricks. Sinking into me, soaking me to the core.
He’d become aware of me, he’d noticed my body. It had made him feel things he didn’t normally feel.
My mind went back to my birthday when we’d hid in the closet. When he’d gazed at me through the dark with a trickle of sweat etching down his neck.
When the air had felt so sticky and sweet it practically pooled around my ankles. I’d asked him if he’d ever tasted hard candy and he’d said he didn’t remember, but he’d had one in his pocket. The exact kind I liked, that I always kept in my purse.
Merrick never ate sugar. He’d kept one in his pocket because once upon a time I’d left mine in his car and left a mark on his leather upholstery. Because he knew I liked them.
My head hurt. What did all of this mean? Was I just stupid drunk or was the wine freeing my forbidden thoughts? Making connections I didn’t have the courage to make sober?
I dragged my eyes up to him. He stood in the middle of the hallway, waiting for me to move. Up until now, I’d felt twinges of puzzling feelings towards him, but I’d always thrown them out right away. I’d always corrected myself when I noticed his abs under his shirt or accidentally stared at his mouth too long.
But not tonight—tonight I looked him up and down and took my time with it.
He was, objectively, gorgeous.
Midnight hair, impossibly tall, and lean and muscular. Built for sin, made to be enjoyed. I knew absolutely nothing about sex, but I knew I could do dirty things to a body like his.
I could objectify it, pleasure myself with it. Drag my nails all over those lean muscles and suck bruises into his neck. Trace my tongue between his pecs, between his abs, and down to the forbidden place under his belt.
He’d asked if the hard candy was a euphemism and it hadn’t been at the time. But it was now.
He was probably sweet and hard at first. But I knew he’d melt on my tongue and drip down my throat by the end.
A thrill moved down my spine and heat radiated from my cheeks.
He was the most delicious man I’d ever seen.
And yet, I’d missed it for six years.
“Clara!”
His voice, harsher than I was used to, yanked me back. I blinked rapidly, my face burning.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, hurrying past him.
“I think you need a full glass of water and a Tylenol before you go to sleep,” he chided, completely oblivious.
There was a frantic pulse between my tingling legs. He ushered me into the suite and I stumbled into the bedroom and shut the door. On the other side, I heard him searching through the cupboards.
My heart pounded.
This couldn’t change anything.
Yes, for the first time, he had turned me on and made me want him.
But he was old enough to be my father and I was supposed to be marrying someone else next summer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MERRICK
She was asleep by the time I brought her a Tylenol. She lay on her side, her cheek against her arm. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks. Her body rose and fell, little snores whistling from her nose.
Her dress was rumpled, hitched several inches above her knees. Her bare thighs were lovely. Soft, slightly rounded, with a little line of muscle up the side.
I stalled, feeling intensely guilty.
