No Limits. Lori Foster
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much, so don’t change the subject.”
When she took in his determined expression, it shook her. Never had she wanted him to see her as anything but self-assured, mature and poised. Her best bet now would be to get the talking over with so she could go make herself presentable. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
Instead of launching into his all-important talk, he breathed deeper, zeroed in on her mouth and whispered, “First things first.”
Yvette had no idea what he meant by that—until he came forward and put his mouth right to hers. Barely there. Lightly touching. Tentative.
She froze, her breath suspended and her body taut. Only her heartbeat seemed to function as it leaped into overtime.
When he didn’t pull away, her eyes sank shut. Sharing breath with him, drowning beneath a rush of intimacy, she made a small sound.
He reciprocated by touching his tongue against her, moving softly over her lips, tracing the seam where she held them closed.
In a dark, husky voice, he whispered, “Open up for me, honey.”
The sexy command made her gasp—which was just the opportunity he wanted.
Still going slow and easy, he teased his way in as if savoring the experience.
She forgot she was a wreck, forgot this could lead nowhere, forgot...everything.
With a soft growl, he adjusted for a better fit. His mouth nudged hers open more. One of his hands caught her ponytail, tilting her head back. The other opened on the small of her back, urging her to the edge of the seat. He brought her into the solid cradle of his big body, surrounding her in so many ways. Without deliberate decision, she slipped her hands up to his shoulders, and, oh, God, he felt incredible, as good as she’d always imagined.
Every nerve ending jumped in awareness.
It had been so long since she’d been kissed, especially since she’d been kissed like this.
The last time was three years ago—with Cannon.
She forgot about her appalling state of sweat and wrinkled clothes, the wind-tangled ponytail he held.
He sank his tongue in, tasting her deeper, hotter. His hand left her back to settle boldly on her bare thigh just above her knee, his strong fingers wrapping around her, encircling her leg.
When he slid that hand upward to the edge of her shorts, she finally regained her wits.
She shoved back so fast she almost toppled the chair. For a split second, they stared at each other, his gaze smoldering, hers—though he probably didn’t realize it—full of regret. They both breathed too fast.
Shooting to her feet, Yvette got as far as the kitchen doorway before Cannon caught her.
His strong fingers held her shoulders, their heavy breathing the only sound in the room. After several tense moments, he deliberately loosened his hold and eased her back into his chest. She might have thought he had calmed, except that she felt his furious heartbeat against her shoulder blades.
“Don’t run from me,” he said low, his mouth touching her ear. “Swear to God, Yvette, it only makes me want to chase you.”
If he could actually catch her, she’d have no problem with that. But she knew what he didn’t, so she’d have to be the one to stop. “This was a mistake.”
“Felt like a hell of a lot more to me.”
Not leaning against him took every ounce of her willpower. “I’ll shower and change and then we’ll talk all you want.” Now that she realized how combustible things could be, she knew they needed to clear the air. She needed him to understand that nothing would come of it.
She might even have to admit she was broken.
By small degrees, his hands opened from her shoulders and he took a step back. Time ticked by, and finally he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Knowing she wouldn’t be able to handle it if he stayed in that damn towel, she asked, “Just...get dressed, okay?”
“If you promise not to keep me waiting.”
A negotiation? So she had to bargain to get him clothed? The irony of it hit her: most women would be trying to steal his towel, not urging him to put on clothes.
When she’d found out what her grandfather had done, not once had she imagined this scene as a consequence. Other than Cannon’s one moment of weakness during the darkest time of her life, he’d kept a safe, and platonic, distance away. She’d expected more of the same.
Logic had told her that Cannon, now a superstar with many demands on his time and his choice of women, would make a quick agreement to let her take care of business. For the sake of her wounded heart, she had counted on his only involvement being that of signing papers and then accepting what was his.
Instead he’d moved in with her—for how long?—and used his body to taunt her, to tempt her into wanting things she already knew she couldn’t have.
With one sharp nod, she said, “Give me fifteen minutes.”
* * *
NONE OF THAT had gone quite as he’d planned.
Well, parts had. Like her melting.
Like the taste of her.
The softness of her skin and the way her hair smelled.
Her impact on him was the same as three years ago when he’d first kissed her. She’d started an itch that had never gone away, and instead had grown to nearly consume him. Now he didn’t have the excuse of consoling her, of trying to distract her from harsh reality.
No, he just wanted her. Bad.
But she shied away like a virgin. Or worse, like a woman injured. And for some damn reason, that made him act like a damned Neanderthal when he’d never been that heavy-handed with women.
Her reaction to him tortured him, making him want her sexually all the more, but also wanting her in other, less familiar ways.
Ways he didn’t yet want to name. Hell, they’d only been reunited for a day. Less, considering she’d spent much of that time avoiding him.
When the phone she’d left on the table made a noise, he glanced at it.
A Facebook alert. Nosy and not giving a shit, he read the screen.
Facebook 1 min ago
Heath: Who the fuck are you posing with?
Hmm. A comment on the picture he’d taken with her? He wanted to know, but didn’t want to invade her privacy enough to check the phone for more details.
To keep from tempting himself further, he went down the hall and into the bedroom across from hers. He opened his overnight bag and dug out fresh clothes. Shoving his feet into his favorite pair of worn jeans, Cannon cursed himself.
He had a boner no woman could miss. Especially not a woman so skittish and uncertain—a woman who’d devoured him with her gaze.
Carefully, he eased up the zipper while ordering his body to calm the hell down. Knowing she was so close, he had marginal success with that.
He was sitting on the side of the bed, tying his sneakers, when her bedroom door opened.
True to her word, she’d showered and changed in record time. At the open bedroom doorway, she peeked in at him, saw he was dressed and let out a tense breath.
If it were anyone other than Yvette, it’d be amusing how his exposed chest and legs had thrown her. He couldn’t recall any other woman demanding that he get dressed. Hell, if she watched the fights as she claimed, she often saw him in nothing more than shorts.
Of course, that wasn’t so up close and personal. That wasn’t near