Page 15 of Arrogant Bastard

He nips at my bottom lip before answering. “Kissing you is a joy I’ll happily chop off a limb for. But no, that’s not what I meant. Not this time anyway.”

His thumbs trace the area just below the curves of my breasts, turning me further into a delirious wreck. “I…you…”

“I can’t wait any longer, baby.”

I become painfully aware of his destination a moment later when he shoves his fingers into the waistband of my yoga pants and tugs down with a decisive motion. Lycra and satin roll halfway down my thighs before I suck in my next breath. The fiery protest that rises to my lips dies when I catch a glimpse of Killian’s face as he stares at what he’s unveiled.

It’s a twisted mess of voracious hunger and intense pain. Of gnarled joy and censure. His color heightens as his nostrils flare slightly. “You kept it shaved,” he finally rasps. His eyes haven’t moved from my pussy. He seems incapable of looking away.

“Not…” I barely stop myself from saying not for you. Regardless of how I feel, those words seem petty somehow. Besides, they would also be a lie. The reminder that no other man has seen me like this since I walked away from Killian pierces through my fog of lust. I move my hands but they never make it to their destination.

Killian recaptures my wrists. “Stay,” he commands gruffly.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” My response is pathetically feeble this time. And he doesn’t dignify it with a response, save to slide his thumbs into my palms, straightening out my fingers before nudging them flat against the door. His fingers splay over mine for a second before he drops his hands.

Stay.

It takes every ounce of strength in me to drop my hands and utter the word. “No. This…is as far it goes.”

His chest expands as he sucks in a deep breath. I know he’s about to talk me around. And, God, a part of me wants to. But this is ten kinds of fucked up. I remind myself of the reasons I left him in the first place. Because of where our type of combustible sex leads to. Insanity and ripped souls.

“Baby—”

“No!”

He steps back immediately but his eyes remain pinned on me.

Legs shaky, I reach for my clothes. There ought to be something faintly undignified in digging for your panties among the tangled elastic of your yoga pants while the man whose face you’re dying to ride watches you with unwavering intensity. Especially when all your fingers turn into useless thumbs.

My face is burning by the time I struggle into my panties. And when Killian silently steps forward again, tugs the pants out of my hands, and takes over the task of helping me put them back on, I’m so disgusted with myself that I remain silent and let him do it.

My hair band is nowhere in sight, so I make do with shoving the mess over my shoulders and behind my ears. “Now that you’ve…that we…” Oh, fuck off, brain. Get your pathetic self together. I need you.

“Now that I’ve reacquainted myself with how beautiful your lips taste? How you still get as wet as fuck just from kissing me?”

My face burns a fresh shade of what have I done? “Can we just get on with it?”

“Of course.” He steps close, places his hand on my back like we’re about to take our seats at a state banquet and not as if I’ve just clawed at his hair while kissing the hell out of him. “Let me show you the rest of the apartment. Then we’ll talk.”

I want to refuse. I want to demand that he open the door so I can leave. But the intensity of the orgasm I’ve just denied myself has fried enough brain cells to keep me mute. Plus, if he’s correct—and unfortunately Killian, when it comes to this part of his life, is rarely wrong—and it really is the monsters from our last assignment that have reared their respective heads, I’ll need every scrap of intel at my fingertips. And the man who once embodied my every obsession and darkest nightmare is the person to provide it.

So I nod. But when he goes to take my hand, I pull away. It’s either that or beg for him to finish what he started.

Sad amusement flickers over his face before he shoves his hand in his pocket. I avoid looking at the huge erection in his pants as we walk back into the living room. Jesus, he must be suffering. Killian is a master at delayed gratification, but I know what four years without sex feels like. I’ve just come within a whisker of demonstrating it in reckless abandon.

No matter how badass he is about it, it can’t be easy. Except I’m pulled up short by my line of reasoning a second later when it occurs to me that Killian may not be as hard up as I’ve been in the sex stakes. Unlike me, he may not have been as picky to the point of complete abstinence. Hell, he may not have held back at all.

He wasn’t exactly a monk when we met. Far from it. I witnessed a few awkward conversations with various women before his electronic black book was deleted. But had it remained deleted?

I shut off the part of my brain that threatens to become obsessed with that question, and focus on my surroundings. The living room is much larger than I initially thought. There’s a bar at the end of the open space with a wide range of bottled liquor displayed on the mirrored shelves behind it. Another smaller grouping of sofas next to the bar looks out onto a stunning view of the East River, where the sun is putting in a tentative appearance on the horizon. The soft, warm tones complement the art and make the room a stunning masterpiece, but I’m not here to admire the real estate.

“Okay, living room. Check.” My brisk tone earns me another barely there smile.

“Kitchen next.” He leads the way to the foyer but takes the left hallway this time. The kitchen, like the living room, reeks of money, taste, and class. Futuristic-looking appliances gleam on spotless surfaces, and a sleek breakfast island and stools are perfect for after-marathon-sex snacking. I try very hard not to picture another woman standing at the breakfast counter, making Killian’s favorite coffee while wearing absolutely nothing. Like I used to.

“Kitchen. Check.”

“Wait.”

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