Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(41)

“No.” Stupid. So stupid for her heart to be beating so damn fast. They’d agreed he would help her. He’d taken steps to keep his word. That was all. She desperately needed to corral her hormones. “What did you find out?”

“In a minute, sweet. This might be the last time you allow me to touch.” Austin’s breath moved the hair at her nape, his capable middle finger hooking around the crotch of her panties and tugging them aside for his index finger to explore. “Wouldn’t that be a shame when I haven’t yet had the honor of screwing you with my tongue? That little spot we discovered yesterday wouldn’t be too difficult to reach. We’d hook those knees beneath your arms and pray you could keep them up.” Without warning, the panties were jerked high against her center and tugged, creating unexpected and devastating friction. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Could you keep your knees up, Polly? Or would you clamp your thighs around my head? I need you to let me find out.”

Already she could feel the approaching climax, felt the inner walls of her core convulsing, searching for his absent fingers, begging for the erection she could feel against her bottom. But the urgent edge to his words forced her to concentrate. No, it was more than that. His behavior back at the meeting. Something was wrong, and they couldn’t go any further until they turned the page and found each other. “Why might this be the last time, Austin?”

He almost managed to disguise his sigh of frustration, but she heard it. Or maybe she felt it. Connected to him. His touch was suddenly absent between her legs, both hands pressing to the door in front of her face. When his hips began to circle in slow, seductive thrusts against her backside, lace and a zipper all that separated them from guaranteed ecstasy, she almost gave in and let him seduce her into what, according to him, could be the final time their bodies were joined together. Why? No. Don’t want that, despite everything. Following instincts she’d only just begun to recognize, Polly reached up with her own hands and laid them on top of Austin’s bigger ones.

Behind her, Austin stilled. The sudden lack of sexual movement almost bred regret inside Polly, until his forehead dropped to her shoulder. It stayed there while they caught their breath and then lifted. “Polly, listen to me. I—” He broke off, his hands turning over in a lightning move to clasp her fingers. “What’s happened to your nails?”

She’d forgotten. Really, it had been a decision made during such raging internal conflict after leaving the hotel this morning, it had gotten lost in the current of anger, confusion, and lust. Upon walking into her apartment, she’d gone straight to her bathroom with the intention of taking a shower, but she’d flung open the medicine cabinet instead and snatched up the fingernail clippers. She hadn’t simply trimmed her nails; she’d kind of demolished them. The skin beneath was red and angry, her nails shorn to the point that she wouldn’t be scratching any itches for weeks.

“Polly?” Austin brought them back over her shoulder to his mouth and kissed each individual one, a frantic use of lips. “Ah, sweet. What have you done?”

The nickname, usually employed with sensual intention, used instead as an endearment untied some vital knot inside her. “You don’t like those marks on your back, and I won’t contribute to them again.” She turned to meet his eyes, chaotic in the shadows. “I’m sorry that I did.”

Austin looked like a man who’d just glimpsed tragedy, which made no sense. He kissed her damaged fingers one final time and replaced her hand on the door with a gentleness that made her throat close up, the picture of a man on the way to his own execution. With the utmost care, he tugged her skirt back into place. When he finally stepped back, she felt the few feet of distance in her bones. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

…

How unfitting that Polly should be bathed in pure white sunlight when bitter darkness fought to get free of him. She turned to face Austin, appearing almost angelic but for the caution in every gorgeous feminine line of her body. That wariness was a testament to her intelligence, and he appreciated it, while wanting to melt it away with his touch. If he hadn’t seen the abused tips of her fingers, he’d have her in bed now, halfway to her second orgasm. But he had. He’d seen the evidence that she’d felt…regret over hurting him. And double damn if heavy responsibility hadn’t come with that knowledge. It pressed down on his sternum, making it hard to inhale. She’d done something to prevent him pain. Affording her the same respect was his only option, even if it meant placing her out of his reach.

Life had been so much easier as a selfish prick.

Seeing that her T-shirt was untucked, Polly did an adorable double take that made his heart lurch, smoothing the fabric back under her waistband. “Why are you sorry, Austin?”

Needing to buy himself a little more time with her in the sun, Austin crossed to the mini-fridge, opened it and plucked out two small bottles of Jameson. Unbelievable. His hands could barely function well enough to twist off the metal caps, clumsy under the mere prospect of truth-telling. “I’m sorry…that I haven’t told you yet about this morning’s endeavor and what it yielded.”

Polly said nothing behind him, but Austin could hear her bullshit detector going off. She accepted the glass tumbler containing two fingers of whiskey and perched herself atop the polished desk. It didn’t escape his notice that she was as far from the bed as possible. Very likely, Polly’s proximity to a bed would never be far from his consciousness.