Chapter 8 #2
"Jesus fucking Christ, Lacey," he whispers. "You're even more fucking gorgeous than ever."
My eyes burn again at his praise. "Cole, I…" I don't even know what I was going to say, and trail off, uncomfortable with yet also turned on by the frank scrutiny and blatant appreciation on his face as his gaze rakes over my body again, lingering on my chest.
He pushes away from the door and turns to face me, and I gulp, hard—his underwear is tented by his massive erection, and I can't possibly look away. Especially not when he prowls toward me with predatory grace, each step making the giant thing behind the thin layer of fabric sway.
He’s in front of me all of a sudden, towering over me. "You should leave, Lacey. Yesterday was a hard, emotional day for me and my control is shot. And you look way too fucking good right now."
"Cole," I breathe. I know how stupid I must sound, unable to say anything other than his name, again and again.
I just don't know what to say.
That I fucking want him? That I've masturbated to memories of him? That when I press my vibrator to my clit, alone in bed after Eddie is gone to work, it's Cole I think of, not Eddie?
The weight of all that remains unspoken still hangs between us, and I know we’d both regret it if anything happened right now, before we had time to put everything on the table.
But my god.
The raw hunger in his eyes as he looks at me is fucking intoxicating.
"Don't look at me like that, Cole Mannix," I whisper, backing away from him. "You're not the only one with control issues right now."
He stalks toward me, and I back away until the bed hits the backs of my knees, and I sit, involuntarily.
My legs splay open into a wide V, and he fits his trim, hard hips between them, towers over me.
I stare up at him, my eyes wide and unblinking.
His chest is mammoth and anvil-hard, blocking out the room and everything in the whole world, my focus narrowing in on his skin, his muscle, the bulge and the shift of his body as he breathes, the way his muscle flexes under my scrutiny.
My hands find his flat, hard stomach—no six-pack here, but rather the hard block of muscle of a man who works hard and eats well.
Fucking sexy, is what it is. He's grown a thick dusting of golden body hair since I last saw him shirtless.
He's bigger all over, thicker and denser with muscle, and now the fuzz… fuck. So hot.
My hands lift, reach, find his skin. Roam his stomach, his chest. My eyes don't leave his, nor his mine.
His hands are clenched into fists at his sides as I touch him. "Lace…fuck." His eyes shut. “I’m two seconds from…" he trails off, shaking his head. "Fuck."
"Two seconds from what, Cole?" I ask, breathing a delicate whisper.
Another shake of his head. "If you don't leave right now, you'll find out.
" His eyes snap open. "Fuckin' dreamed of you, Lace.
So many goddamned times over the years. Woke up like this.
" He gestures at his crotch, at the thick rod of his erection.
Thinking of you. Wanting you. Needing you.
And yet no matter what fantasies my fucked up brain concocted about you, nothing could have prepared me for how fucking goddamned perfect you still are. "
"Cole, fuck. Jesus." I cover my face. "I dreamed of you, too."
"Weren't you married?"
I nod. "It…it wasn’t that kind of marriage, Cole. He didn't want me. He just…owned me."
Fury fills his features. "How could anyone see you and not want you?"
"I don’t know," I breathe. “You'd have to ask him."
"Rather knock his fucking teeth down his throat."
"Don't. He’s not worth a single second of your time or attention, Cole."
A fingertip touches my chin, lifts my face so my eyes must meet his. “Or yours."
I shake my head. "No, I…I'm not…I'm not worth that. Or…or whatever you think I'm worth."
"Everything."
“Nothing," I counter.
That fingertip stays under my chin, and he applies upward pressure; I stand up, my breasts grazing his chest. "Everything," he repeats. "And then some."
I shake my head. “No."
A thumb brushes over my lower lip. "This mouth."
"Cole, don't."
"Then leave," he whispers. "I told you to go. I would, but this is my house. I warned you, Lace. Woke up with your fuckin…" his eyes flick to my chest. "Those incredible tits of yours…"
My eyes squeeze shut at his words. "Cole," I whimper. "Stop."
"Can't." He frames my waist with his hands. "Only way to stop me is to leave. Right now. Because I can't stop. I've denied how I feel about you since you got here, and I just don't have it in me right now to pretend."
“Pretend what? How do you feel?"
"I feel a lot of things for you, Lacey.” He trails a finger over the waistband of my leggings, and then his fingertip finds skin, and then he's slowly letting his finger drift upward, taking the hem of my cami with it.
"But right now, the only thing I'm feeling is a fucking unshakable need to rip this goddamn thing in fucking half. "
My lips tremble. "Cole. Jesus."
I meet his eyes and I know he's not kidding. There's no humor or teasing on his face. If anything, his hands seem to shake, framing but not quite touching my shoulders, as if he is in fact two seconds from losing the fight to not do exactly what he said.
And I'm fighting the urge to not just let him do exactly that, but beg him to.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, which only makes my tits jump, drawing his eyes down to them.
Cole's hands—so much bigger and stronger than I remember—frame my face, again without touching. His hands tremble ever so slightly. His eyes, the exact shade of the richest liquid chocolate, meet my eyes, then my lips, and if he kissed me just once, I could die content.
He doesn't kiss me.
He wants to, though. I know the signs: the way his tongue dances across his lower lip, the way his brow furrows just like that, not with tension or anger but something else, something deeper.
His hands slide down and his fingers hook in the neck of my camisole. "You have to walk the fuck away right now, Lacey Grey. We both know this is a terrible idea."
There's nothing I can say—I don't want to walk away. God help me, but I can't. I just can't make myself pull away. In the end, all I can do is lock my gaze on his and show him that I'm unafraid, and shake my head.
He huffs a laugh. "You never could, though, could you?"
"No more than you ever could," I say, my voice now as hoarse and raspy as his—desire is hot in my throat, and emotions thick in my chest. "True," he rumbles, his voice so quiet I can barely hear him, the words felt as much as heard. "And I still can't."
His fingers tighten in the neckline of my camisole, and my breath halts, stutters in my lungs. His eyes search mine, and that tongue tip slides over his lower lip again.
"Lace," he whispers. "I'm tryin' to be good, here."
"We've both been good our whole fucking lives, Cole," I answer. "I dunno about you, but I'm over it. I'm done being good for everyone but me. If this is bad, then fine. I'm bad."
His grin is wicked, a devilish smirk that's wholly unlike anything I've ever personally seen on him. "You wanna be a bad girl, do you? You know I'm a cop, right?"
I lift my hands to him, wrists together. "So arrest me."
"Goddammit all, Lacey." His tone is exasperated, ragged. "I fucking tried."
His hands jerk apart with sudden, brutal force, and a ripping sound fills the room as the flimsy silk of my camisole shreds in his powerful grip like tissue paper.
I gasp, a shrill, breathless half-squeal as my tits sway, the sudden exposure to the air and his hungry gaze making my already erect nipples harden and tighten into aching diamond points.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Lacey," He whispers, eyes going comically wide, his tone reverent and awed. "Were they always…?" he blinks, shakes his head. "Gah, who fucking cares? They're goddamned magnificent."
My pulse hammers in my chest, thunders behind my ribs, pounds in my throat. "Cole," I whisper; it's a plea. For what, I don't know.
He brushes the silk from my shoulders, leaving me topless and bare. Automatically, my hands fold together over my belly, hiding the bunched and wrinkled ugliness.
He doesn't miss the move, his eyes narrowing and his jaw tightening. "We'll discuss that later."
I shake my head, but he's not looking at me. Or, not at my face. And that's fine—it just means he's not witnessing the pain that flashes through me as his gaze flickers over my hands-covered stomach and away, back to my chest.
Oh.
Shit.
He is looking. He did see. His hands grip my wrists and pull my hands away. I try to fight, but he's immense and powerful, and I stand no chance against him. "You're fucking perfect."
I can't breathe. God, I can't breathe. Not when he looks at me like that—like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
His hands lift, come to rest on my waist. Drift up my sides. His eyes find mine and hold there as he brings those huge, rough hands higher and higher, until they halt a centimeter beneath the lower swell of my breasts.
I pull in a deep breath and hold it, hold his eyes. "It was you," I whisper. "Every time."
"Me every time what?"
"I saw you. Your face." I touch his jaw. "These hands." I cover his hands with mine, guide them upward. "In my dreams. When I was alone. When I was with…" I trail off, unwilling to sully this moment with that name.
His eyes darken. "Fucking hell, Lacey." His jaw ticks. "Fine. Fuck it. You wanna be bad?"
He scoops my tits up in his big hands, and they spill over even the wide spread of his massive paws.