Page 24 of Mensa's Match

“Donny’s fabulous food notwithstanding,” I muttered.

“Great food is great food. Hell, it’d only give me one more reason to dislike you if you didn’t dig his grub.”

He held my hand to his lower belly, and with every breath he took, I swore he inched my hand even lower.

Anticipation had me tingling somewhereotherthan my breasts. “What is your point, Mensa?”

“Not sure I have one.”

I scoffed. “Then let me roll over—”

“Seems youdohave control.”

“You were testing me?”

“I was testing myself, but I can see why you’d say that.”

Again, I tugged, but he rolled toward me. “Hate me, yet?”

Moonlight filtered in through a gap in the curtains, giving me an excellent view of his features. I stared into his eyes. “No.”

“Are you fighting it?”

I pushed my head back into the pillow. “Fighting what? Hating you?”

He leaned forward an inch, and when he spoke his voice was deeper and huskier. “Control.”

Then I noticed he’d let go of my hand. His tone, his weight… hell, just the wait for a moment like this with him, it stoked a fire inside me.

My body buzzed with need and my control felt like a melting ice cube. There, but quickly dissolving to a slippery shard.

“Yeah,” I breathed.

He backed away, and to my surprise, I let out a low whimper.

“I want a straight answer to this. Someone suggested I… bang you and get it out of my system.”

My timing sucked because I inhaled sharply through my nose right when the A/C cycled off.

Of course, he heard it.

“If you don’t want that, I’ll lay on the floor.”

I wanted him, but I also wantedmorethan just a quick bang to work me out of his system. Nobody else had to know about this… especially if it was just for tonight.

“I didn’t hear a question. Or was that the question?”

He brought a hand to the side of my head and his thumb stroked my cheekbone. “Thing is… I don’t think you can be honest because I’m not sure once will be enough.”

I didn’t either, but I kept quiet.

In the ensuing silence, my need grew to an ache.

After a long moment, he said, “It can’t mean anything, and you strike me as the meaningful type.”

That crazy voice in my head pointed out that ‘can’t mean anything’ was worlds apart from ‘won’t mean anything.’

Fool that I was, I let that notion take root even if I didn’t openly acknowledge it.

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