Caine ached into his very bones. Ached with desire and need and lust.
As if Emma Kerry wasn't fucking beautiful and funny and smart. As if she wasn't direct and honest and sincere. As if she hadn't sated his hunger for the first time in…ever. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd allowed himself to eat until he was full. Now she was waving a red flag at him, and he wasn't sure she realized that he was a bull that wanted nothing more than to charge until he'd pinned her to the ground beneath him.
He felt torn in two. Between restraint and letting himself loose. Between doing what was right for both of them and doing what they obviously both wanted. Between being dumbfounded that someone like Emma would want him, and not wanting to question it before she came to her senses and realized she was way too fucking good to be messing around with someone like him. Someone so broken. Someone so unworthy. Someone whose hands were so dirty with the grime of life's underbelly.
"So, which one do you want?" she asked again, looking at him like she was throwing down a challenge.
It was the rasp in her tone that did it. That little tell that her physical desire was true, visceral, real snapped the last of his restraint.
Slowly, he rose. Stalked across the kitchen. Took the two boxes of ice cream from her hands. He reached over and dropped the boxes on the counter, and then he was right back to her again. All up in her space and walking her back until she was trapped. Trapped by him.
"You, Emma. I choose you for dessert." His mouth came down on hers, demanding and firm. And that first brush of skin on skin lit him all the way up. He was rock hard and wound tight, full of need and wonder. What was left of his brain function raged against the recklessness of allowing himself even a single taste of her sweetness. He shouldn't do this. He knew he shouldn't. But he wanted to so fucking bad.
Just one good long taste.
On a moan, her lips parted and her arms went around his neck. Caine's tongue sank deep, plundering her mouth like the invader he was. She tasted like orange soda and everything good in the world, and he licked and sucked at every little moan and mewl and gasp she gave him.
He needed to claim every single one. And he wanted more.
Plowing his hands into her silky soft hair, he boxed her in tighter against the counter, the shifting press of her belly a too-soft tease against his hard dick. But this wasn't going to be about that. He was going to make this about her. About giving her pleasure, not taking his own. If he gave and didn't take, maybe she'd regret it less when she realized what she'd done-and who she'd done it with. And maybe, just maybe, he'd find it easier to walk away when this was over and she came to her senses. Like he knew she would.
"Caine," she rasped around the edge of the kiss.
Fisting his hand in her blond waves, he urged her to tilt her head back. He trailed kisses and licks and nips across her cheek to her ear, her jaw bone, that soft spot on her neck. Downward, to where the slope of her skin met the neck of her sweater. God she was soft and sweet, the little sounds spilling out of her like rays of sunlight in the darkness. So warm and unexpected.
And then he was back at her mouth again like the greedy motherfucker he was. Tasting and exploring and penetrating until she was panting and pushing herself again his cock and he feared he might not be strong enough to keep his dick in his pants where it needed to stay.
Reaching between the tight press of their bodies, he popped the button on her jeans.
Her eyelids lifted slowly, like she was as lust drunk as he was. And he looked her eye to eye as he laid out his intentions. "I need to taste more of you. All of you."