Page 114

I slide a hand around her waist and draw her right back against me before she gets the chance.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask near her ear, and a shiver runs through her.

I fucking love that.

The way she responds to me—my touch, my presence. Even when she tries to mask it, she fails. Her body always betrays her.

“I fell asleep here” she says under her breath, almost like she’s apologizing. “I’m sorry… I must have passed out before leaving.”

So that’s what this is—she’s apologizing for staying. Which means I wasn’t clear enough last night.

“Thalia,” I say, framing her face between my hands so she can’t avoid my gaze, “you didn’t need to leave anyway.”

Her expression shifts again, surprise shimmering in her eyes.

“I don’t know what you took from our conversation last night, but let me make one thing clear—you don’t have to gather your things and run every time we have sex.”

My tone comes out harsher than I intend, but I don’t take it back.

“You did the same thing in Zanzibar. You left without telling me.”

“That’s because the time before that you literally kicked me out,” she shoots back, tapping my shoulder with a quick, pointed slap. “From this exact room,” she adds.

She’s talking about her birthday, the night she kissed me and everything went completely off balance in my head. When I told her we could spend another night together, only to shut it down the second the first round ended.

Because she kissed me.

And all I wanted after that was more—again and again, without stopping.

I’d been too caught up in her, too thrown by the emotions she stirred in me to let it go all the way.

“I didn’t want us to go any further that night because it was driving me insane how much I wanted you,” I tell her, without filtering it.

I let my hands fall away from her face and lean back against the headboard, my attention still fixed on her.

Her reactions play out in full view, and I can’t deny how much I enjoy it.

Right now, confusion is written all over her—she has no idea what to do with my admission.

“Jesus, Thalia,” I say, amusement slipping through. “I’m the same man you had sex with four or five times last night.”

She rolls her eyes and presses both palms against my chest, pushing slightly.

“Shut up,” she mutters, clearly flustered.

“And now you suddenly don’t know how to act around me?”

I’m laughing now, unable to stop it.

There’s something disarmingly appealing about seeing her like this—the woman who always has a comeback ready, who meets every bit of my sarcasm and provocation head-on.

And now she’s thrown off balance, because of me.

“It’s different, okay?” she says, defensive.

“How?”

“Our interactions have always been either flirtation or provocation, basically,” she explains, hesitating briefly before lifting her gaze and locking it with mine. “And then, for a long time, there was nothing.”