Page 51 of Stone Rules

“It’s none of your goddamn business, Ethan.”

He shakes his head, disagreeing with me. “I think you have some kind of score to settle with these men. The first time I gave you information, you turned up with a shiner. Then last week, the same day I gave you more intel, you limped out of the pool like a lame dog. And then today, you go dressed like a thug to Morgan Tenney’s place. What would you think if you were me? Tell me, Charlie, did these men do something to hurt your mother? Are you seeking revenge against them?”

“No, Ethan. They didn’t hurt my mother. Turn off your P.I. radar and quit messing with my life. I’m a big girl and I don’t need you looking out for me.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t give me that,” I interrupt. “What about Devon? What about the guy with the concert tickets? Hell, what about your own cousin—you even warned me away fromhim. And let’s not forget about your brother, Kyle. And then there’s Chad’s friend, Adam. Why did you step in when he propositioned me?”

“Why do you fucking think, Tate?” His eyes burn into mine and they are windows into his soul.

“And why do you call me Tate when you want to fuck me?” I yell, not caring who in his office can hear my outbursts. “If you wanted to just be my fuck buddy, you would have come up to my apartment on Friday. I thought you simply decided you wanted nothing to do with me. But now—the way you are looking at me. All doey-eyed and come-hither. It’s obvious you want me. It’s obvious to everyone in the fucking world except you, Ethan.” I stop pacing and stand in front of him. “Why? Why are you so scared of relationships?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says.

“The hell you don’t,” I say. “Why, Ethan?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Rule number ten, that’s why.”

“Oh my God. You and your damn rules. Just tell me!”

He looks at me. He holds my stare with his eyes. He holds my heart in his hands. It’s teetering on a ledge, about to topple over and splat all over the pavement below, or it’s about to be pulled back, rescued from certain demise.

His hand runs through his hair and his eyes close briefly when he says, “If you don’t have anything, you have nothing to lose.”

His words slay me. But not in aheart-splattered-across-the-pavementkind of way. More like in ahe-wants-me-so-much-he-can’t-bear-to-have-mekind of way.

My breath catches. My chest heaves. My heart surges. And the moment he sees how his words affect me, his mouth comes crashing down on mine, claiming me so completely that not even my voice of reason has a chance in hell of stopping this freight train.

Chapter Twenty-three

He bites down on my lower lip and then sucks on it before his tongue dives into my mouth, exploring every inch of it as heavy breaths come from deep down inside him. My tongue darts into his mouth, wanting to taste him just as much as he’s tasting me.

I need to be pressed against him. My body remembers what it felt like at the concert and it craves more. I jump up into his arms, smashing our chests together. He holds me steady with his hands, caressing my butt as he walks us across the room.

He shifts my weight into one hand while he reaches the other out to his laptop.

My lips don’t even leave his when I say, “Leave the camera on.”

I can feel his smile against my mouth before he resumes the perusal with his tongue.

I don’t even know how long he stands here, holding me, kissing me. His arms must go numb under my weight but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t put me down. His hands are all over my ass, rubbing, kneading, prodding.

I want those hands on other parts of me. “Touch me,” I beg through our kisses.

He walks us over to the couch on the far wall of his office and carefully places me down on it. I rip my hoodie off, revealing an old tank top underneath. This was the last thing I expected today. I try to remember what bra and panties I put on this morning. I pray he’s too worked up to even care.

I grab the hem of my tank but his hand comes out to stop me. “No,” he says, removing my hand from the material. “Let me.”

He carefully peels off my shirt like he’s unwrapping a present. Slowly. Methodically. Almost painfully. I watch his eyes dilate when they fall to my breasts, still covered by the thin cotton material of my nothing-special bra. He pulls the cups down, exposing me to him, trussing my breasts up for his eyes to feast on. He reaches out both hands, giving equal measure to them and we gasp simultaneously when his hands meet my flesh.

One hand continues to explore my chest while the other comes up behind my neck. He tilts my head back, exposing my throat so he can press his lips to it. He works his mouth and tongue from collarbone to ear on one side, and then he does it all over again on the other. My body shudders. The sensations running through me right now are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

Finally, his lips find mine again and I moan into him as he claims my mouth once more. He kisses me. And kisses me. And kisses me. I’ve never kissed a man this long. Never had a make-out session with anyone. Never wanted to. Kissing wasn’t necessary. It was a bothersome task that only got in the way of the quick release I wanted.

But, Holy God, the way this man is kissing me right now. I get it. I get what all the hype is about. He’s not just kissing me; he’s making love to me with his mouth. He’s a starving man and I’m his dinner. He’s a painter and I’m his canvas.

Is this what it’s like for everyone? Surely not. This kind of kissing could bring about world peace.

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