The Platinum Collection: Surrender To The Devil. Caitlin Crews
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her eyes still felt too full, too heavy, as if she might cry at any moment. Her hands twitched with the urge to press against her own lips.
It was as if she no longer had control of her own body.
You are entirely too emotional, that prim voice inside of her lectured sternly. You are letting this crazy situation tie you into knots.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, because she didn’t know what else to say. She felt as if she’d run for miles, and could now only shake slightly, ache too deeply and dream of moving that fast, that far, all over again.
“For what?” he asked quietly, his eyes intent on hers, burning into her, branding her. “For kissing me? Or for stopping?”
Becca had no idea how to answer that. She felt her lips part, but no sound came out, and a darker fire bloomed into life in Theo’s gaze. She could feel it sear into her skin.
But the elevator doors slid open, and Becca tore her gaze away from his. She walked quickly, blindly, into the vast penthouse, only stopping when she realized that she had not caught her breath in some time. That was why she felt very nearly dizzy, she told herself. That was why her skin no longer seemed to fit her correctly.
“And now you run away,” Theo said softly, far too close behind her. “Perhaps you are sorry for all of it, after all.”
Becca turned, slowly. She had the odd feeling as she did so that the world was altering, right then and there, in that moment. That she would look back on this very second and know, somehow, that after it she had no longer been the same person. That Theo would wreck the Becca Whitney she knew, forever after. And still she turned, unable to stop herself or stave off the inevitable, and he was even closer than she’d imagined. His gaze was still hot and intent, turning her into jelly. Making her want to simply fling herself into his arms, right here in this great room that should have made her feel insignificant. But it didn’t. Not today. Not when this man with his tortured gaze looked at her like this, as if he wanted to burn them both alive with the electricity that hummed between them. As if that would be some kind of sacrament.
“Or perhaps that was not you kissing me at all,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to move inside of her, as if he was already deep within her. “Perhaps it was one more ghost, conjured into life by that rabble outside.”
“Don’t!” she gasped at him, hardly able to speak, hardly able to get the word out. But once it was there, between them, and he looked at her so expectantly, she found she could not seem to continue. There was too much noise in her head. Too many cautionary whispers on the one side, and too many treacherously seductive murmurs on the other. As if she really was two people in the same skin, both desperate for control—and neither winning it.
There were so many things she wanted to say. She wanted to explain to him how much it hurt her, though she told herself it shouldn’t, that she still didn’t know if he looked at her that way for herself, or if he saw Larissa. She wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter anyway, because clearly this connection between them was better, hotter, more than he could ever have had with another woman, no matter who she was.
But the last thing in the world she wanted to do right now was utter that name out loud. Not when he was so close, so sensually intent, and she could reach out her hand and feel the heat of him. Not when she so desperately wanted to prove that she was no ghost. She was real. Just like him.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice much too low, much too breathy, to be her own. A frankly sensual smile curved in that hard jaw, and arrowed directly into her core.
“I already told you what I want.” His brows rose, and his hands moved at his sides, though he did not touch her. She knew, somehow, that that restraint hurt him. “The better question is, what do you want?”
Becca laughed then, surprising herself. It was the laugh of a dedicated wanton, low and rich, and came from some deep, feminine place inside of her she’d never encountered before. Some place where she was not conflicted about this man at all. A place where she simply wanted him, no matter how much she struggled against it. And so she laughed, sensual and suggestive, and watched his eyes narrow with desire.
“I think I made myself clear,” she said.
He reached out then, and wrapped his fingers around the end of her ponytail, tugging on it gently, making her head dip toward him.
“Be more clear.” It was a command. Clear and concise. Why should that make her melt all the more?
“I was the one who kissed you,” she reminded him. “But you didn’t seem to care very much for the experience.”
What if there was a reason for that? Suddenly, her confusion flooded her. What if she was imagining this fire, this breathlessness? What if it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with who she looked like? And what did it say about how far she’d fallen that she might not mind as she knew she should—as she clearly would, if she had any self-respect left at all?
“I want you to be certain about what you’re doing,” he said in that ruthless way of his, that purely masculine command ringing out in his voice. Strong. Certain. And soothing her that easily. “You need to be absolutely sure, Becca. Because I won’t be satisfied with halfway. Or once.”
A prickling sort of heat broke out all over her skin, making her clothes feel too tight, her breaths too shallow, as if she might burst. Into flame. Into pieces. She wasn’t sure she cared which.
“Typical,” she managed to say, despite the heat and the ache and the riot in her head, deep in her blood and between her legs. “You’ve barely kissed me and yet you demand that I decide whether or not I want to sleep with you right here and right now? Is this how you negotiate your business affairs, Theo? All or nothing, based on the faintest and least illuminating of examples?”
“Let’s see if you find this more illuminating,” he said, with the faintest hint of a smile his eyes glinting, and then he bent his head and took her mouth with his.
Theo did not merely kiss. Theo … possessed.
His mouth opened over hers, hungry and demanding, and he angled himself closer, his hands spearing into her hair to hold her and guide her as he took his time with her mouth, tasting her, teaching her, making dark, sensual promises with every touch of his tongue, his lips.
And Becca went wild.
Her arms were around him, testing his wide shoulders and anchoring behind his neck. He bent into her, making her arch toward him, finally pressing her swollen breasts against the hard wall of his chest. He angled his mouth for a better, hotter fit, making her groan against him, and then he undid her completely by pulling her hips flush against his.
He was hard and big, and she felt herself melt all around him.
She could not get close enough. She could not break away. She had the frenzied notion that her whole life had been leading right here, to this kiss. To him.
“Theo.” she murmured, and he shifted, lifting her high against his chest. With a touch, he encouraged her to wrap her legs around his lean waist, bringing her hips tight against his. She felt his hardness against her softness, and moved against him, making them both shudder. He dug his fingers into her hair, pulling out the ponytail holder and tossing it carelessly aside. Freed, her hair fell around them, shielding them in the scent of musk and flowers. And again he took her mouth, with such devastating skill, such resolute mastery, that she felt herself shuddering against him. So much want. So much need.
He made her mindless.
“So tell me,” he said against her mouth, his maleness hard and proud against her, making her want to move, to be as wild as she felt, to writhe and scream and find herself in this hot, bright fire. “Have you seen the light?”
“You know I have,” she whispered, her voice broken, her lips slightly swollen from his. “It turns out you are a very illuminating man, after all.”
Theo