Coal black eyes burned with desire. He wanted her. And Lordy, did she want him. With every breath she took. It was an ache that only seemed to grow in intensity. She ground her hips against him, needing release.
A groan rumbled at the back of his throat. “Addy, stop. I can’t—”
She slid a hand to the thick bulge straining against the vee in his jeans. “I’d say you can.” And how. She couldn’t wait to feel him inside her, filling her, making her whole again. She was tired of fighting what her body wanted. Truth-be-told, she wondered if she’d been pushing away the one thing she truly needed.
He jerked away, his face rutted with trouble-lines while his eyes flamed with passion. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, I do. And so do you. I can see it in your eyes. Hear it in your voice.” She moved her hand to his chest, the need to touch him potent as barrel-aged whiskey. “Feel it in your heartbe—”
“No.” He trapped her hand and held on as if he could stop the inevitable. “You deserve more than a tumble between the sheets, Addy. You’re loyal and caring. The type of woman who can’t do casual.” Regret clouded his eyes and stained his voice. “You need a man who can give you a future. Not a poor, down-on-his-luck ex-con like me.”
“You’re wrong. I do need you. I need the way you look at me.” She thumbed the tops of his fingers, savoring the smooth firmness of his skin. “The way you touch me. Like I’m the only person in the room. Like I’m worth more than a bucket of ash. You care about me, and that means more than you’ll ever know.”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel.”
“Of course it matters. You’re a good man. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”
He moaned and briefly closed his eyes, his expression tortured. A pang stabbed her heart. Was he tortured by the thought of making love to her? Or something else? “What is it, Garrett? Why are you fighting what we both want?”
He bowed his head. “I just don’t want to do something we’ll regret later.”
“Why would we regret it? We’re both consenting, unattached adults.” An ugly thought surfaced, and she gave him a pointed look. “You are unattached, aren’t you?”
“I’m not married or otherwise spoken for, if that’s what you mean.”
Whew. That was a relief. She’d never been a home-wrecker and wasn’t about to start. She tilted her head to the side, studying him, searching for clues to why he struggled. “Then what’s the hold-up?”
“Me. I’m the hold-up.” He backed away, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he moved. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things you’d hate me for doing.”