“You’re angry?” Dani asked, incredulous.
“Yes, I’m angry. I expected a certain amount of privacy when I rented this room.”
“You’re angry?” Dani repeated, louder. “I have been in agony for days. I’ve hardly slept. I sewed a sleeve closed yesterday and hemmed a pair of trousers for a boy with twelve-inch legs. Sadly, they are far too short for him because he doesn’t have twelve-inch legs. I am angry with you, Michael Malone.” Each word was punctuated.
“And I was angry first,” she added, “so you are going to have to wait your turn, or even better, try some introspection and ask yourself why you have any cause to be angry at me for caring about you.” Her mouth trembled, and she gripped his undershirt like she wanted to rip it in two.
“You’ve got my shirt in your hands,” he snapped. “So where have I been? What have I been doing? Why do I need to tell you? You know everything already.” He peeled her hands from his clothes, caught between his extreme annoyance and his terrifying adoration. It was an odd, prickling sensation, like walking barefoot on the sand. It had been there from the day he walked into the shop, and it grew worse by the second. His shirt freed from her grasp, he clutched her shoulders, intending to put some space between them.
“I don’t know everything!” she cried. “It doesn’t work that way. And right now . . . I only feel you.” She crossed her hands over her heart like he had hurt her feelings, like she was trying not to touch him. But she held his gaze, defiant, and she was still too close.
He was weary, frustrated, and out of his depth. Instead of shaking her, he kissed her, his lips hard and his eyes open, trying to assert a dominance he didn’t feel. Better to demonstrate the disappointment he would be to her—in every aspect—than to let her think they were friends.
But her lips weren’t hard or angry or mean.
She was soft and warm. Real and eager.
He gasped, and her sweetness filled his lungs and flowered on his tongue. He closed his eyes and chased the flavor, wanting more of it, and his will dissolved in a hunger-induced fog.
Sweet Mary, Mother of God.
His hands slid from her shoulders to her back, pulling her up and into his body. He was a starving man given a loaf of bread and told to eat his fill.
He had not kissed a woman for so long. When had he last kissed Irene? Irene had not wanted passion, even before he left, and he had bridled his. Now he had no idea what to do with it.
He pulled back abruptly and let Dani go, embarrassed by his inability to act the part he’d been trying to play. Long ago, he’d learned to keep his cool in every circumstance. He’d gotten so good at it. But he was not cool now. He was sweating, and his heart was pounding. And he was still famished.
“Please leave, Dani,” he begged, not really meaning it.
She hesitated, her shoulders wilting. Then she took a deep breath, straightened, and rose up on her toes, pressing her lips to his once more.
“What are you doing?” he moaned against her mouth. “I am not the man for you. I am not.”
“I think you very well might be,” she said, withdrawing a hairsbreadth, just enough to speak. Her voice was plaintive. “And I’m trying to decide whether you don’t like me or if you just . . . don’t trust me.”
“I like you.” And he did. He liked her very much. Oh God, he liked her very, very much. “And I don’t trust anyone,” he added. That part really wasn’t personal.
She sighed, her breath tickling his lips, but she didn’t move away and neither did he. “How typical,” she whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers, trying desperately to be strong, but his arms had crept back around her.
“If I were not . . . me, would you want me?” she said. Her hands had climbed to his face.
He wasn’t sure what she meant. He was quite sure that he couldn’t possibly want anyone more.
“There are some women you don’t . . . you don’t . . . dabble with,” he said, talking more to himself than to her. They were speaking with their foreheads pressed together, her hands cradling his cheeks, his arms wrapped around her slim waist.
“The world would be so much better if we didn’t dabble with anyone,” she said.
“Yes. Exactly. It would be. So I won’t be . . . dabbling . . . with you,” he said, but his mouth had inched down to hers, sneaking a taste of her bottom lip. She moaned like he was feeding her grapes, and he spent the next minute gulping the wine of her mouth, sipping and suckling, pouring himself another and another.