Page 81 of Inarticulate

He complied and moved ahead to pull back the ruby bed coverings and pat the mattress like a father to a child.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

He frowned, giving her a let’s-be-reasonable look. But there was no reason, no sense, and no self-preservation. He crooked a finger, enticed her to his side and placed his hands on her shoulders to gently guide her to sit on the bed. With gentlemanly finesse, he removed her jacket, placed her cell on the bedside table, then lowered to his knees to tug off her shoes, like a pauper to a princess. All she could do was watch while he became her knight in tarnished armor. A waking dream she didn’t want to fade.

“I should probably have a shower…” She felt dirty, her skin tinged with sweat and grit that didn’t call to her quite as much as the need to close her eyes…or kiss his lips.

“Sleep,” he mouthed and slid his hands up the outside of her thighs, his steely gaze peering up at her.

Yeah, because slumber was possible when his touch crept toward the most sensitive part of her body.

He gripped the tops of her thigh-high stockings and tugged, lowering them inch by agonizing inch. The further he strayed from her pussy, the more her throat tightened in protest. Soon she’d be starved of oxygen, the fight between exhaustion and lust pushing her toward unconsciousness.

He dropped the flimsy material to the floor and lifted her ankles, encouraging her to lie on the bed. “Sleep.” He stood, unbuttoning the top of his shirt, and then walked to the door to flick off the light.

He was joking, right? He’d run his hands under her dress, removed her stockings, teased her with the glimpse of his chest, and now expected her to drift off? That was going to be a challenge worthy of its own reality TV show.

She imagined him undressing, could practically see it in Technicolor when she heard the hollow thunk of his shoes, the clink of his belt, and the delicate whoosh of clothes hitting the carpet. The bed covers rustled, and she measured her need for breath as he slid in beside her.

Everything around her stilled—the air, the bed, Keenan—yet she was buzzing, her thoughts bouncing from one thing to the next. She needed his seduction, his lust, his greedy passion, because this caring side of him left her uneasy. It implied emotions she didn’t want to acknowledge, in him or herself.

“You scare me, Keenan,” she murmured. “Being likethis with you scares me.”

He slid closer, wove an arm around her waist, and nodded against her shoulder.

“I don’t want to like you.” She rolled away from him, his agreement drying her throat. “But I do.” Too damn much to be healthy.

He spooned in behind her and pressed a brief kiss to the back of her neck. She didn’t know what she’d expected from her admission, maybe cockiness, or the grind of his erection against her ass. Instead, his sweet affection infused her with something that seemed a lot like heartache.

She was lost to him, carelessly and undeniably. And it wasn’t the usual instigators that made the pain tighten her chest. She wasn’t thinking about their positions in rival companies, or Penny, who would enjoy tearing them apart.

All she could think about was settlement day, and how she’d have to leave him to return to San Francisco, no matter how close they became.

Chapter Twenty-Five

For the first time, Savannah awoke with Keenan still peacefully lying beside her. He was breathing deeply, his hand possessively on her back, his presence making her core tingle in the most torturous way.

Sleep had softened his features. There was no scowl or tight jaw. He was flawless in his slumber. Less imperious and entirely endearing. She wanted to remain like this forever, because waking him meant facing reality.

He’d admitted he was falling for her, and she experienced the same descent. Only she wasn’t eager to embrace it. She would prefer to forget the complication and count down the days until settlement on her own. Safe in solitude. But the sight of him, the excitement and invigoration while being around him, made reality less worthy of her time. The thrill of him was far more important. The desire to be with him like a drug.

His eyes opened under her gaze and a gentle kick curved her lips. She clung to her pillow—his pillow—and sank under the spell of him blinking back at her.

“Morning,” she mouthed the word, maintaining the quiet.

“Morning.”

She wondered how many women embraced his silence and how many demanded to fill the void with unnecessary chatter. She wondered about everything and anything that pertained to this man. She itched to know it all—the secrets, the degradations, the achievements.

His hand began to rub in slow circles, the warmth of his palm infusing the low of her back to spark a fire in her core. Around and around, he swept away the sleepiness and increased the dosage of his appeal. He inched toward her, his smoky irises so close, so intimidating, as his touch rose. He teased her waist, her ribs, the sensitive part of her shoulder and up to her neck, his fingertips barely brushing her tingling skin.

Casually, he marked her, drawing his affection over her chin, along her cheeks, and against her bottom lip. She couldn’t hold in the whimper when he stopped.

His eyes blinked in lazy strokes while he raised his hand between them. His fingers outstretched, as he indicated his face in a swirl of movement, then closed them tight before reopening them all at once.

She frowned, unsure of the gesture.

He mouthed a word, an indecipherable movement of lips, that increased her confusion.

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