In one motion, he had me back against the alley wall, his arms caging me.

“Dear god, Angie. You’re beautiful.”

“Evan.” That single word was all I could manage. The only sound I could push out past the swarm of emotions clogging my throat.

“Do you have any idea how long I—”

“What?” I demanded when he cut himself short. My word was a whisper, a plea. Hell, it was a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and fear shot through me, making me cold. “Christ, I’m so damn sorry.”

I reached out and clutched his T-shirt, refusing to let him walk away. It was only when I did that I realized that he wasn’t walking and the apology wasn’t meant for me. Or maybe it was. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care, because whatever he was doing or apologizing for or thinking about, it had nothing to do with leaving. I figured that out from the hard and fast way his mouth came down on mine, the way his knee edged between my legs. The way his proximity thickened the air between us, making it warm and liquid and sensual and safe.

He broke the kiss long enough to meet my eyes. His were dark with passion. Mine, I’m sure, were wide with wonder and delight.

I opened my mouth to speak, though I didn’t know what I intended to say.

He shook his head, then brushed a soft kiss over my lips. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think.”

I shook my head, then nodded, then shook it again. Don’t think? Hell, I couldn’t think. Not then, and certainly not when his lips brushed my temple and his hand closed over my breast. Then, all I could do was gasp.

His thumb brushed over my nipple, now hard behind my bra. What the hell had I been thinking? I should have burned the thing. Worn lace. Worn nothing at all.

“Damn clothes,” he murmured, and I almost laughed with delight at how in sync our thoughts were. That bubble of laughter, however, soon faded in the wake of the words that followed. That smooth masculine voice telling me he wanted to touch me, to drag his teeth over my nipples, to tug my skirt up and my panties down so that his fingers could cup and stroke me.

No, it wasn’t laughter that bubbled inside me anymore. Instead, it was molten lava. Hot. Thick. I wanted to bathe in it. To melt under his touch. To let him take me wherever he wanted to go.

I sighed with pleasure, my hips shifting in response to his words. My back arching in silent demand for more of his touch. More of him.

“Evan,” I said again, only this time it wasn’t a name, it was a plea. Hell, it was a command.

His fingers twined in my hair, and he tugged, forcing me to tilt my head back and look at his face. I felt drugged and woozy, all the more so when I looked at the deep gray of his eyes, soft with lust.

“Angie,” he said, his voice flat and almost sad. I saw the lust fade from his eyes, replaced by something hot and hard. Before I even had time to fully process this change in him, he released my hair and smacked the brick wall behind me. I jumped, surprised and confused by this change in him.

“Goddammit,” he said. And then, more gently, “God, I’m an asshole.”

I shook my head, denying his words and his actions. I didn’t want him to stop, and I didn’t understand why he was.

No, that’s not true. I understood it—but I just wanted it to go away. The world around us. Promises. Loyalties. They had no place between us. Not now. How could they, when the fire that burned between us would render everything else to ashes?

“Tell me.” My voice was low. Breathy, but determined. “You said if I knew what you wanted, I’d run. So tell me, dammit, because I’m not running yet.”

“Tell you?” he repeated, his voice rough and uneven, as if he wanted to hold back but couldn’t. “Tell you how I want to strip you bare? How I want your breasts to fill my hands, your nipples pinched between my fingertips until you cry out in pleasure and in pain?”

I shuddered, my nipples tightening simply from the promise of his words.

“Or should I tell you how I want to feel the sting of my bare hand on your naked ass until your cheeks are red and your cunt glistens.” He leaned in closer, his whisper ragged at my ear. “I want you naked, Angie. Naked and bound and wet for me. I want your legs wide and your body exposed. I want to see you. Hell, I want to feast on you. I want my mouth on you, my tongue driving you mad. I don’t want you to know a goddamn thing except me and the pleasure I bring you. And I want to watch the way your eyes go bright when I finally let you come.”

I was breathing hard, my panties soaked, my thighs damp and trembling. His words shocked me, yes. But they also turned me on.

I leaned back, increasing the distance between us infinitesimally, but only because I had no choice. It was either find support against the rough brick wall or collapse to the ground, my body no longer quite able to hold me upright.

The second I edged back though, a shadow crossed his face. “Like I said, I’m an asshole.”

Despite the fact that he’d completely undone me—despite the fact that every bone, muscle, and tendon in my body had turned to jelly—I somehow managed the smallest shake of my head and the tiniest noise. “No.”

I drew in a gasping breath, then said more forcefully, “No. I’m not running. I’m not going anywhere.” I licked my suddenly dry lips and glanced down at the ground, embarrassment overtaking me. But not enough to cripple me. Not even close.

Traffic rushed by at the end of the alley and the pulse of music filtered through the thick walls of the club. None of that noise penetrated, though. The alley seemed still and quiet, as if the world had quit turning and everything—my existence, Evan’s, the whole damn universe—was stuck in limbo until I spoke again.

I steeled my shoulders. “Everything you just said … I—I want it, too.”

My cheeks were so hot I was certain they must be flashing as red as neon, and I kept my eyes down, afraid that if I looked up and saw him I might spontaneously combust.

“Angie. Oh, Jesus, Angie.” He took my head in his hands, his fingers sliding into my thick tangle of hair as he tilted my face up to see his. “You completely unwind me.” There was such intensity in his voice that it sounded almost painful, and the tenor of his desire shook me to the core. “Tell me you want me. Tell me you want this.” The words were rough and urgent. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I want you,” I said, the words sounding inadequate against the complexity of the emotions behind them.

For a moment, he held my gaze, as if he was searching my face for some sort of deception. I didn’t flinch. I knew what he saw in me—himself, reflected right back.

He stroked my cheek with the pad of his thumb, the sweetness of the gesture in stark contrast to the rawness of all the things he’d said he wanted to do with me. But somehow, that simple touch made me melt even more.

He was everything I’d ever wanted. Everything I needed. Hell, he was more than I could have imagined. And in that moment, I knew I would do anything to keep him there with me.

“I want you,” I repeated. “I want this.”

“This?” he repeated, then leaned in to brush a trail of feather-soft kisses down my neck, then along my collarbone. His touch was lighter than air, and yet it pounded through me like the steady, rhythmic thrum of a bass drum building to a crescendo.