Page 29 of Restless Hawke
“What changed your mind?” He grins. “Am I a shitty kisser?”
I chuckle at that, unable to stop the reaction. Nor am I able to prevent myself from taking the half-step required to close the distance between us. I rest my raised hand against his chest, pushing up on my stilettoed toes to align my mouth over his. “Definitely not that. Quite the opposite. If I stayed tonight, I don’t know that I’d be able to walk away.”
That confession stings.
Admittinganyweakness does, especially to a man like Coen Hawke.
He is trained to look for them, to manipulate them and use them to his full advantage—both at the poker table and in life. And he will not hesitate to use mine against me the same way I did him today.
Which means I have to leave with the upper hand any way I can.
I kiss him deeply, sliding my tongue along his, and his arms wrap around my waist, tugging me fully against him. The warm, hard heat of his body presses into me, and a low, rumbled groan vibrates from his chest through my palm still pinned between us there.
Slow and sweet.
This isn’t the sexually charged kiss we shared upstairs.
This one is meant to keep him thinking. Keep him wondering. Keep himwantingmore than just me in his bed.
I pull away breathless, my head foggy and swimming, my body throbbing and pulsing and ready for it to go so much further, but I can’t.
Not now, not ever.
He watches me with half-lidded eyes, thick lashes framing that vibrant blue. They beg for me to stay. Plead for it.
Reluctantly, I press another quick peck to his cheek before I change my mind. “I have to go.”
I slip out of his hold, and he follows me through the doors and out to the front circular drive as Buckley pulls up to the curb.
Coen’s heavy footsteps follow me. “So…this is it?”
His question almost makes my strides falter, but I force myself to keep moving forward. To not look back.
Buckley climbs from the limo and makes his way around to open the door for me. I slide in, and Coen reaches us.
He braces one hand on the roof, the other on the edge of the doorframe, and leans in. “You’re just going to walk away?”
A flash of pain dances across his eyes, and for a split second, I reconsider staying. Reconsider what it would mean if I did.
You can’t.
I nod. “I have to go.”
It doesn’t matter that my things are still up in my room—the hotel will ship them to me with one call. And there isn’t anything there that I can’t live without for a day or two.
But if I spent a day or two withthisman…it will only mean disaster in the end.
His hand tightens on the edge of the door, and my body remembers what it feels like to have that hand on me, phantom fingers digging into my back, urging me to stay. “When will I see you again?”
I offer a shrug as my only answer.
It’s the only one I can give.
He slips back from the limo, disappointment written across his face. Buckley closes the door, and Coen retreats slowly until we finally pull away.
The devastation written across his face hits me far harder than it should.
This was always a game, a way to see if I could get under his skin, and I’ve proven that I can. I shouldn’t care that he seems hurt by my rejection. I shouldn’t care that my body is objecting quite strongly to my decision to walk away from him rather than to climb into his bed and onto him.
