“I try, Eli. Even if I don’t stay for twenty years, it doesn’t mean I don’t try,” she said, the ball of fury growing hotter, bigger.
“You get to feel superior,” he said, “and that’s damn convenient. Because you get to judge me for what you think is me refusing to make a difference, and the view from your high horse tells you that you have made one. But it’s only because you’re all wrapped up in this fuzzy, fake reality blanket you knitted for yourself. You get to say that it’s real, that what you do is real, and you get to look around this place that hasn’t changed and say that what I do isn’t. But it’s because you’ve never bothered to look behind you.”
“That is...” she said, searching for words. But it was hard when they were all mired in anger. “That is completely unfair.”
“Is it? You’re standing here telling me I don’t care when, honestly, the thing is, I do. But caring doesn’t do a damn thing. You have to act. I act according to the law. I keep things in order, using real rules and guidelines. I don’t deal in the subjective, because I can’t afford to make irrational mistakes.”
“I see. So emotions are irrational.”
“Hell yes,” he said. “Emotions are damned irrational.”
He took a step toward her, the tight space of the entryway growing smaller. “You know what else is irrational?” he asked.
“What?” She shouldn’t ask what. Because she shouldn’t want to know. Because the answer was going to lead to something stupid, and she knew that better than she knew just about anything at this point.
“Attraction,” he said, his voice getting deeper.
Oh, no. That was definitely the wrong topic.
Everything slowed down, except her pulse, which sped up, beating hard in her neck, her wrists and, noticeably, at the apex of her thighs.
“Sure,” she said. “Attraction is...you know, not logical, because it originates in your pants and not your brain. Which is not strictly true, actually. Your brain definitely plays a part in attraction...” Which begged the question why her brain and body were conspiring against her.
“It’s a nuisance,” he said.
“Get off my lawn, sexy feelings,” she said, shaking her fist and trying to laugh.
But before she could finish the fake giggle, it was cut off by Eli’s mouth over hers, by the fierce strength of his body propelling them both backward until they hit the wall. She dropped her lemonade, hearing it hit the floor, hearing it splash upward and spill the ice. It would be sticky and slippery and she just didn’t care right now.
He pushed his pelvis against hers, the hard ridge of his erection evident against her softness. She rolled her hips against him and he groaned, the sound reverberating through her.
She didn’t know why anger and lust were all tied into one thing with this man. She didn’t know why she couldn’t control her emotions or her body around him. She didn’t know why she wanted him even when he drove her crazy.
Even when she didn’t like him. At least, she was pretty sure she didn’t like him.
It was hard to parse the finer feelings just at the moment.
He growled, a kind of deep, low sound. A sound that spoke of both satisfaction and hunger as he moved his hands to her waist to hold her, slid them down to her hips and held her tight.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself more firmly against his body, and she found herself backed more tightly against the wall, the kiss intensifying.
She bit his lip and he returned it, his teeth leaving behind a stinging impression that burned all the way down. She was past thinking. She was past anger. She was past caring whether or not they could ever go out to dinner together without fighting.
Because what did that matter when there was this? Nothing else mattered. Not the construction workers outside, not her pride, not anything. Not in comparison with the heat that was burning between them, white-hot and insistent. Perfect.
This was sexual need in its purest form. Undiluted. A straight shot of alcohol that buzzed right through the brain and turned everything on the periphery gauzy. Consequences didn’t matter. Eli mattered. While the rest of the world faded, he remained. Sharp and present, perfect. Necessary.
She released her hold on him and ran her hands down his chest, over the thin black T-shirt that seemed to be his out-of-work uniform. She could feel the muscles underneath, the hard ridges, defined peaks and valleys.
And she couldn’t stop herself from dragging her fingertips all the way down to the edge of his shirt and pushing her hands beneath the hem. She hissed when her fingers made contact with hot skin and rough hair.
This might kill her. He might kill her.
She didn’t know if she had the fortitude for this. Because it was definitely like nothing she’d ever experienced before.
This wasn’t a pleasant tightening in her stomach and a bit of slickness between her thighs. It was all-over need. Warmth that bloomed low and spread to all of her extremities, that infiltrated her veins and heated her blood, making it flow hotter, faster, went straight to her heart and sent it into overdrive. Left her shaking and weak and needy in a way that should terrify her.
Scratch that, it did terrify her. But the arousal drowned out the fear. Mayhem was crashing around her, but it didn’t matter because lust was a giant hand holding her head down beneath the waves. Where she was insulated, and at the same time in terrible danger.
But that only made it better. More exciting. More desperate.
She moved her fingertips up over his stomach, over abs that could be played like a washboard in a country band and toward that broad, perfect chest.
“Oh, just take your shirt off,” she muttered against his lips, pushing upward while he tugged the end and hauled it over his head.
Her heart stuttered for a second before racing ahead again as she took in the overwhelming hotness that was Eli Garrett. She’d thought of him as Officer Hottie on first sight, but she’d had no. Freaking. Idea.
Tanned and toned with just a smattering of body hair over his chest and down the center of his abs. Like the path on a map, leading to buried treasure. And she could tell, based on the feeling of his hardness against her, that he was packing some serious treasure.
He pushed the straps on her dress down, exposing the thin, peach-colored bra she was wearing. He swore, harsh, breathless, and moved to cup her, sliding his thumbs over her nipples. She leaned her head back, banging it on the wall. And she didn’t even care.
He lowered his head, pressing a hot, openmouthed kiss to her cleavage, the desperation in his actions spurring her on, bringing her closer to orgasm with each touch of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on her tender flesh.
Kissing, touching, had never brought her so close. He hadn’t even put his hands between her legs—where she was wet and aching for him—and she was still right on the edge, ready to go over with the slightest touch. Another flick of his thumb over her cloth-covered nipple, another calculated slide of his tongue against hers.
He didn’t do either. He lifted his head and looked at her, dark eyes meeting hers. His brows were locked together, his lips pressed into a line. He looked like a man trying with everything he had to cling to his control. A man who was losing. The moment jarred her, gave her body just enough of a reprieve that she didn’t feel so close to the end.
She moved her hands behind her back, shaking, and unclasped her bra, throwing it onto the ground.
