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Because I wanted more.
We cleared the dishes in silence, the air thick with unspoken words.
When I turned to face him, he was already watching me, his expression unreadable.
My heart pounded.
I stepped closer.
So did he.
Neither of us spoke as he reached for me, his fingers trailing down my arm, slow, deliberate.
I shivered.
His lips brushed my temple, my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth—everywhere but where I wanted them.
“Christian,” I whispered.
A low sound rumbled in his chest.
Then he kissed me.
Hard.
His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head back as he pressed me against the counter, his body flush against mine.
I gasped, my fingers fisting in his shirt.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine, sending heat rushing through me.
I was unraveling, piece by piece.
And I wanted to unravel.
I tugged at his shirt, impatient, desperate for more, but he caught my wrists, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.
“Are you sure?” Christian asked.
God, how was he still this controlled?
I exhaled shakily. “Yes.”
9
SCARLETT
Christian liftedme onto the counter, his mouth reclaiming mine, all hesitation gone.
Heat.
Need.
The desperate, aching want of him.
I arched into him as he trailed kisses down my throat, his hands skimming my waist, my hips, every inch of me on fire.
Clothes disappeared.