“That I'm an idiot.”
A slight curve curls across his mouth.
“Because you started a fight you couldn't win?”
“Because I just am. For so many reasons.”
His fingers trail from my shoulder down to the arc of my collarbone.
“God, do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you are?”
I swallow and don't answer because I'll sound like a complete and total bitch if I say the truth. Beauty is the only attribute of mine that never changes, regardless of whatever guy I'm with. And it’s a compliment to which I’ve grown callous.
“Kalli, I—” He stops and closes his eyes.
I reach up and run my thumb across a drop of water trailing over his cheek.
He releases a heavy breath and turns his face into my hand.
“What do you want?” he asks. “Give me the truth.”
In a perfect world?
“You.”
His hand curls around the back of my neck and he jerks me forward to meet him halfway. His kiss is wet and brutal, and I feel boneless in his arms. Incorporeal. Like the only the thing holding me together, the only thing tethering me to this existence is the drag and crush of his mouth against mine.
My back presses against cold tile, and his hand bunches up the wet skirt of my dress until he manages to peel enough of it away to slide a large hand against the bare skin of my thigh. His fingers are slick against my leg, and my breath catches in my throat.
He breaks away from our kiss, and his mouth plays over my shoulder, dragging down the strap of my dress with his teeth until it falls to my elbow. The hand on my leg slips higher as his tongue teases at my collarbone. Then he moves lower to the drooping neckline of my dress. His fingers brush up against the edge of my underwear, and I can't stop the moan of anticipation that escapes my lips.
He hesitates then, pulling back slightly just before his hand or his mouth reach the places I really want him.
But I don't want him to slow down. I don't want him to think.
Because then I'll have to think too.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Please what?”
I reach for him, plucking at the hem of his soaked shirt and pulling it up and away from a slim, toned stomach. When I keep pulling, he lets me tug it over his head. It slaps provocatively against the floor, and my body clenches in response.
“Please touch me.”
He seems to war with himself for a few seconds longer, but when I trail one long finger down between his pectoral muscles, the indecision disappears. He wraps an arm low around my waist and pulls me up against him.
“You could tempt a saint.”
“Are you a saint?”
He slides a hand down to cup my ass, pulling me forward against the hard ridge of his arousal and answers, “Not by a long shot.”
Stepping out of the shower, his feet slap against the puddle on the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist to be closer to him, but then he has to angle us sideways just to fit us through his narrow bathroom door. I drop my head to his shoulder and laugh, and his own chuckle sends shivers racing across my skin.
He walks us down to a door at the end of a hallway. The bed is big and neatly made, and the room looks comfortable. Nothing fancy or expensive, but it's well taken care of, well decorated, and well lived-in. There's a window air-conditioning unit, and he must keep it turned down low because the room temperature is cooler than the rest of the house.
He leans back against the door, closing it behind him, and captures my lips once again. I don't know whether it's the drop in temperature or the change in his kiss that has me shivering. Gone is the frenzy, and in its place is a slow, steady exploration that kindles an already burning need at the juncture of my thighs. When his tongue has touched every corner of my mouth, he breaks away, resting his forehead on mine as we both struggle to catch our breath.
He crosses the room, and sets me on the edge of his bed. I remember my soaked clothes and protest, “I'm wet.”
That draws another lazy chuckle from him and with a kiss to my forehead, he says, “I hope so.”
I hide a grin, and then poke him in the chest. “Dirty.”
He leans over me, until I have to lie back on my elbows to see his face. He braces his arms just outside my shoulders and lowers his mouth toward mine.
“Damn right. If you could see the way that dress is clinging to your body, you wouldn't blame me. Hell, even before the dress was wet, all I could think about was getting you out of it.”
“Then why am I still in it?”
“Truth?” he asks, and I nod. He trails one hand over my waist and down to my hip, and his warm touch burns through the wet fabric. He says, “Now that I'm back home, I've been trying to clean up my act. Be more responsible. Do things right.”
“And I'm wrong?”
“No. Jesus, no. You're … Fuck, I don't even have the words to describe you. And if you knew me, you'd know how rare that is.”
“But we don't know each other.”
We couldn't. He could never really know me.
“I'd like to know you.”
Gods, I wish things were that simple. It's too easy to imagine myself with him. Imagine lazy days in bed. Discovering other ways to make him laugh. What I wouldn't give to be able to be with someone. No thoughts to my ability and how long is too long to stay. No lies about my past or what I am. If I could be normal, live like a normal person, I think Wilder would be a pretty perfect choice.