Well Suited (Red Lipstick Coalition #4)(33)

“Then who’s to say a relationship wouldn’t work?”

A hot flush bloomed up my neck, to my cheeks. “Who’s to say it would? There are too many variables to track. And I don’t know if the risk is wise for our future.”

Something in him lit up, though his face was still calm and composed. He straightened up and leaned forward, resting his broad forearm on the table.

“So, an experiment is in order. With controlled variables.”

I straightened up myself. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve wanted you from the moment you wiped my kiss off the back of your hand.”

A short burst of laughter bubbled out of me.

“You ignored me for almost five weeks. And every single day, I thought about you. I think I can safely say I want you just as badly as you want me. More maybe. I understand your fears, and they’re real. And I understand the quandary. Our relationship, by accidental default, is happening backward. The rules don’t apply, and the stakes are high. So, let’s experiment. Rather than introduce all variables at once, let’s introduce them in increments.”

Hope sprang. “This is a brilliant idea. Where do you suggest we start?”

His sideways smile rose on one side. “Where we started.”

My eyes widened. My lips parted to speak, but he cut me off.

“Before you say no, consider a few things. Our chemistry, as you mentioned, is overwhelming at best, maddening at worst. By exercising those urges, it’s possible we might empty the tank of desire.”

The way he said possible made me feel like he’d perhaps chosen that word for my benefit. The word held an undercurrent of patronization, as if he knew the tank of desire was bottomless.

But the logic didn’t escape me.

“And, if it doesn’t, then we can make a plan for more incremental steps.”

“Like dates,” I offered, my mind whirring as it composed a list. “Public displays of affection. Cuddling. Sleeping in the same bed.”

“Exactly. We can start where we started. Scratch the itch. See if we get it out of our systems. And if not, then we can add one thing at a time to determine long-term compatibility.”

“Take it slow by taking it fast,” I mused. “Normally, I would disagree, but in our instance, I think it might work.”

That smolder in his eyes was now all over his face, and the full effect would have wobbled my knees if I’d been standing. As it was, it simply made me sweat.

Last time I’d seen that look, I’d gotten myself pregnant.

“All right,” I said. “I’m deferring to you. When should we start?”

“Right fucking now,” he said, standing, pushing back his chair, and tossing his napkin onto his plate in the same motion.

I laughed, flustered and amused. But he didn’t stop, eating up the space between us, his eyes locked on mine and smirk firmly in place as he grabbed my chair and turned it with me still in the seat.

I yelped, still laughing until I couldn’t laugh anymore.

Because he was kissing me.

God, was he kissing me, his lips bruising and determined and relieved and demanding. He kissed me like he’d been dreaming of kissing me his whole life, like he’d recounted it in a thousand ways, and now that it was upon him, his restraint was gone. Wild and hot, his breath noisy from his nose, his hands roaming my hair, my face, my thigh.

I broke the kiss, unable to catch my breath, my lips parted and panting. He didn’t miss a beat, burying his face in my neck.

My arms wound around his neck, my fingers skimming the close crop of his hair and sliding into the thick, dark locks on top.

“Rules,” I whispered. “We need rules.”

“Tell me,” he said between kisses.

My eyelids were too heavy to keep open. I sighed. “Once a week. No sleeping in the same bed.”

“Mmm,” was his answer.

“No dating. No kissing and no touching, except for our itch-scratching. We—oh!” He nibbled my ear, and for a second, I couldn’t speak. “We need a signal. A…a sign.”

He broke away, leaning back, his eyes black and lust-drunk. “I have one rule. It can double as the signal.”

“What?” I said breathlessly.

Theo reached for my face, cupped my jaw, and ran a thumb across my bottom lip, his eyes following the motion. “Wear this lipstick. I want you in it when we…scratch. And that’ll be my cue.”

I smiled, shifting to extend my hand. “Deal.”

But he kissed me instead.

And I found I preferred it to a handshake without question.





13





The Itch





Katherine

Dinner was forgotten, the final straw drawn when he picked me up and carried me like a savage toward his bedroom. There was one brief moment when I noted that I had no reservations, not a single one. And then I couldn’t be bothered to care.

He laid me down in his bed with gentle care, breaking the kiss to smile down at me. He hovered over me, his forearm planted next to my head, his thigh slipping between mine. And my hands had a mind of their own, roaming down the crisp cotton of his shirt toward his belt, tugging the tails from his waistband.

His lips crushed mine in the same moment my fingers grazed the tight skin of his abs. His pants hung from his narrow hips almost without touching them, the incongruity of the ridges of his body with the sleek lines of his slacks a study in opposites. His clothes were that of a man who had a meeting to attend or a private jet to catch or a business to run. His body was that of a man whose only job was to bale hay or chop wood or run a marathon.