he muttered the words. At least, until she stepped inside.
As grungy as her motel room had been, this was worse. Oh, it was clean. There was nothing littering the table and the carpet was spotless, but it had a…funk. It smelled like stale beer and…desperation.
Definitely a bachelor pad.
And it could definitely use a woman’s touch. There were no knickknacks, no personal items. Just a ratty sofa, a rickety table and a couple chairs.
It hit her hard, in the gut, that he lived like this.
Without any joy.
“You hungry?” he asked, making his way into the kitchen to an old refrigerator. He opened the freezer, revealing several slender boxes. “I have pizza.”
“I could eat. But…” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a fan of pizza.” Why he gaped at her was a mystery. Unless pizza was his staple. Which it probably was.
“I have peanut butter.” Indeed, the cabinet held a jar of it. And a loaf of bread. And little else.
“Okay.” She sat at the table and watched as he made her a sandwich. Again, he said nothing, and it irritated her. There was much to be said between them, but she simply didn’t know how to bring it up. Not when he was like this.
“Beer?” He held up a couple bottles.
Beer? With peanut butter? “No thanks.”
He shrugged and popped off a top, then set her sandwich before her and dropped into the chair by her side. He studied her as he took a swig. Discomfort riffled. This was not what she wanted with him. Not what she’d been fantasizing about all day.
She took a bite of her sandwich. There was just something wrong with plain peanut butter. “Don’t you have any jelly?”
He frowned. “Nope.”
“Honey?”
“Nope.”
“Potato chips?”
“Nope.”
She gusted a sigh. “I should have stayed down below.”
“With Ant?” He practically spat the words. Something fizzled through her. Was that…jealousy? It certainly seemed like jealousy.
All of a sudden, his dour mood didn’t bother her so very much. Something curled within her; it felt like hope. She shot Sterling a blinding smile and fluttered her lashes. “He’s a very good cook.”
Sterling snarled. His knuckles went white on his beer bottle.
“And quite…handsome. And, if I didn’t misread him, he’s rather…” She made it a point to shiver. “Dominant.”
A sharp-cut jaw clenched. His gaze blazed. His energy hummed. “Like that, do you?” he gritted.
“Couldn’t you tell? When you smacked my bottom?” She was teasing him and she knew it. But he, apparently, didn’t. Apparently he had no clue how deeply that one night had scored her, changed her. He had no idea how much she wanted to do that again.
He lurched from his chair and stomped to the fridge and grabbed another beer, though he hadn’t finished the one he was working on. Roni hid a smile at this small hint that she was getting under his skin.
“Steele is sexy too,” she said in an innocent tone, although there was not an innocent bone in her body.
Sterling slammed the fridge door hard; bottles clanked.
“And Chrome.” She fluttered her lashes again, because when one was goading a possessive dominant warrior to release his restraint, one couldn’t flutter them enough. “All your friends are…”—another shiver—“yummy.”
His snarl surprised her. Or maybe not. “Keep away from them. They’re not for you.”
She loved it. Loved his possessive tone. “Really?” She traced the pattern on the table with a fingertip. “And who is for me?” A whisper.
His lips tightened. His nostrils flared. A flush rose on his cheeks. “Me.”
Just that. One word. It sliced through to her womb. Me.
She slid the sandwich away. She couldn’t manage another bite. Something was clogging her throat, something that tasted like excitement. She flicked a look at him, standing there in the kitchen, magnificent, enraged, hard, with his hands fisted at his sides, his gaze spitting fury.
Yes, awkward and uncomfortable as this exchange had been, she knew now, knew how to break through his wall.
She caught his gaze and licked her lips. “Oh, really?” she said. “Prove it.”
Chapter Eight
Heat lanced him. A screaming, howling, rippling tide of it.
Prove it.
Prove it.
Oh, hell on wheels. He would.
He stormed over to the table and yanked her to her feet. He stared at her face; her expression slayed him. Her eyes were glazed, lips parted, lashes trembling. Fuck. He had to kiss her. Had to.
It was not what he intended. Not sweet or seductive or gentle in the slightest. It was a maelstrom. A wild, reckless melding of mouths, a tangling of spirit, a consummation. And the best part? She fucking responded