Page 35 of Late to Love

I watch him, silent, and wonder how is it that even his Adam’s apple is sexy. Suddenly, even him drinking water is enough to get me going.

“Where were you?” He pins me with an unreadable expression.

“Working,” I shoot back. “Where else would I have been?”This game sucks.I push off the door—which is trimmed beautifully, I might add—and close the distance to him.

He evades me, shifting past and leaving the kitchen to go back into the bigger space. I swear I hear him chuckle as he does it, but that’s probably because of the growl that issues from my throat.

“Anthony.” I follow him. No way does he get to ignore me.

He turns, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Darcy.”

Heat spears through me at the way he says my name. It’s part warning, part desire, and one hundred percent my undoing. So. Fuck it. I’m laying my cards on the table. “I want you. Maybe the women you’re used to aren’t this straightforward?—”

He huffs, the faintest grin tipping his lips. “Oh, trust me. There is no one on earth like you, Darcy.”

Heat warms my chest at the praise, whether he intended it or not. “I want this. Whatever this is,” I gesture between us, “I want it.”

His eyes shutter. “You don’t. What happened on the beach was?—”

I point at him. “I swear to God, Anthony, if you say it was a mistake, I will throttle you. Because it was as far from a mistake as humanly possible.”

“It wasn’t a mistake, exactly. But it?—”

“Andif you say it shouldn’t have happened, that will also earn you a throttling.” I step toward him. “Quit this. Quit all of it.”

He stands his ground. “And what is it I’m quitting, exactly?”

Another step. “This ridiculous sense of what’s right and wrong. Thatyouhave decided all on your own, by the way. I have no problem with it.”

He opens his mouth to protest, then wisely shuts it.

I’m so close I can feel the heat of him now. “Because this?” I palm his chest, and it takes everything in me not to moan at how firm it is. “This is most definitely right.”

He backs up.Stupid man.I follow, still touching him. Yet another step, another follow, until his back presses against the brick. His heart pounds beneath my palm, and I think it might be possible that—for a moment, at least—I’m the one in charge.

“I’ll say it again,” I tell him, keeping one hand on his chest and lifting the other to the top of my overalls. “I want you. I want this. Whatever it is, whatever it can be, it’s what I want. I’m a grown woman, Anthony. Let me prove it to you.” I unhook one side of the metal clasps, then the other, and the top falls down, revealing the white crop top I’m in.

His eyes darken, and beneath my palm, his heart speeds up. “Darcy.” Suddenly, my name on his lips sounds like a warning.

I lift my brows. “Yes?”

He’s deadly calm. “You have one chance to leave. One. You can walk away, and I’ll pretend this never happened.”

I open my mouth to protest his words, but he places a rough finger on my lips.

“This is the last time I’m going to say it. Do you understand me? Because if you stay—if you let those fucking overalls fall to the ground—you’re mine. No one else’s. For as long as I want you.Mine.”

A breath escapes me, shaky with terror and relief. Terror because he’s dead serious. Relief for the same reason. There’s nothing but determination in his hazel eyes, the gold flecks flashing.

He removes his finger. “Make your choice, Darcy.”

I don’t hesitate. “There has never been any choice except the one that leads to you.” With that, I release the overalls.

On a groan, he snaps, pulling me to him in a rough embrace that feels more like he’s holding onto a life raft than anything. His mouth slants over mine, and I open for him, ready for whatever he wants. He controls the kiss the same as he controlled it on the beach: a sensual determination that speaks of experience. Of desire. Of everything I have always wanted, and am quickly realizing I have never truly experienced.

“Shirt off,” I murmur around his lips.

He breaks our kiss long enough to pull the fabric over his head, and I drink in the sight of him. The massive expanse of skin, the colorful, chaotic ink that decorates it, the dusting of hair that he doesn’t shave. I press my lips to his chest, breathing in his scent—something woodsy, but also distinctlyAnthony—and following it with kisses.

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