The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,296

breathe against her ear before taking a nibble. “You and I both know why I invited you here tonight. And we both know why you came. I want you, Astaire. And you want me. We both have our reasons, and there’s nothing wrong with any of them.”

Silence settles between us, nothing but shallow breaths and the gentle glow of the fireplace. Just when I’m positive she’s about to melt against me, cave in to her inmost desires, she climbs off me and begins to gather her clothes off the floor like she’s got a plane to catch—or someplace better to be.

“I’m sorry.” She brushes a strand of hair from her face, swooping, grabbing her panties and bra and collecting everything in her arm. “I can’t do this. I don’t do casual hook ups. And even if I did … I couldn’t do them with you.”

Breathless, she shimmies into her panties and tight jeans and doesn’t bother with her bra, shoving it into her purse before tugging her sweater over her head. The soft fabric hugs her swollen tits and tents around her nipples. She scans the room, gaze settling toward the foyer—her escape.

Jesus Christ, the woman can’t get out of here fast enough.

She won’t look at me, but she isn’t crying. In fact, she isn’t showing a shred of emotion. If I had to guess, she wants to get the hell out of here and pretend like none of this happened.

Good luck with that, sweetheart …

She’s going to be thinking about this night, about me, about how hot the sex could’ve been, about all the strange yet exhilarating ways I could’ve made her feel … for the rest of her life.

Rising, I slip into my boxer briefs and escort her to the door, fetching her coat from the closet. It’s best that I don’t speak. It’s best that I let her have her moment. I’m not going to talk her into sleeping with me, and I’m sure as hell not going to beg her to stay.

“I’m so sorry.” Her hand rests on the knob, her gaze trained on the door. Still, the woman won’t meet my gaze.

“Stop apologizing, Astaire.”

And with that, I let her go.

Nineteen

Astaire

* * *

If it weren’t for the fact that I can still feel the heat of his mouth on mine, still feel the aching tension between my thighs when I close my eyes, I’d be certain the events of last night were a dream.

I jam my key into the back entrance lock at the Elmhurst Theatre Saturday morning, dressed to clean. The owners hosted a Great Gatsby-themed gala last night, complete with live music and catering, and since I’m on the volunteer committee, I offered to show up first thing to help with clean-up.

“Morning, Astaire! There’s donuts and coffee in the staff room,” Conrad, a fellow volunteer, tells me when I make my way across the lobby. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks, Con.” I acknowledge him with a smile and nod, grab a few supplies from the cleaning closet, and head to the balcony to get started. My stomach is so tied in knots, I couldn’t eat if I tried.

I never should have gone to his place.

It was clearly a trap, a setup.

He knew exactly what he was doing luring me there under mysterious pretenses, apologizing like a perfect gentleman, then making his move when he was sure he had me where he needed me—open, vulnerable, confused by our mutual hypnotic attraction.

I’m not sure what came over me last night when I let him kiss me and then proceeded to jump his bones like some sex-famished lunatic, but when he told me he wanted to bend me over the couch, I suddenly felt more like an object than a human being.

His words catapulted me back into reality.

For some women, being objectified is a turn-on, but it’s never been my thing.

As a person who spent the first decade and a half of her life craving connections of any kind, I can’t do the casual sex thing.

And I sure as hell can’t do it with Bennett.

With his wolf-like glint and his mile-wide cruel streak, getting mixed up with him is the last thing I need. But I still can’t get over the fact that he had someone check into me.

The thought of Bennett Schoenbach taking the time from his busy schedule to solicit someone to look into my background …

He thinks about me. When we’re not together wonders about me. He wanted so badly to know more about me that he