He still wore his sunglasses. The better to hide from her, she supposed, her chest twisting. “Take them off,” she demanded, pointing.
He did, revealing his dark brown eyes and something else she hadn’t expected. Scars. Numerous ones, a network of them around his forehead and right cheek.
Unable to help herself, she moved closer, reached out and traced her finger over the lines. Her touch made him shudder, which brought her back to reality. Shaking her head, she took a hasty step back.
“What happened to you?” she asked softly, trying to infuse a bit of steel in her voice. “I thought you were dead.”
Her question made him swallow hard. She couldn’t keep from following the movement in his damn-him-for-still-being-so-sexy throat.
“Could we sit somewhere and talk?” he rasped. “Please?”
Talk. She struggled to process the word. As if this was an ordinary situation, easily solved with a rational conversation. Except right now, she thought viciously, he should be groveling on his hands and knees, full of abject apologies and recrimination over what he’d done. He’d let her believe him dead for two freaking years. She should show him the door, toss him out on his rear.
Except...she really wanted to know what had happened. His reasons. What would make a man destroy the woman he’d supposedly loved. Just like that, the flare of anger dissipated, leaving her weak.
Usually when stressed, Carly talked. Chattered actually. But this time, she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words. No. Not now. That would have to be Micha’s job.
“Sure,” she said, leading the way down the hall into the living room. At the last moment, she reconsidered and veered into the kitchen, indicating her red-and-chrome retro dinette set. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Her polite and distant tone made him flinch. She wanted to shrug and tell him to take what he could get. Civility, no matter how remote, was a far better response than giving in to her tangled emotions.
“No, thank you.” Dropping into a chair, Micha dragged his hands through his shaggy hair. He’d never worn his hair so long, she thought absently. When they’d been together, he’d kept it closely cropped in a military-type cut, fitting since he’d been a soldier.
Still Micha didn’t speak. She waited, but he simply watched her, his achingly familiar features a study in emotion.
Fine. Then she’d start. She had so many questions. She deserved answers.
“You’ve been stalking me,” she said. “Why?”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he admitted. “I hadn’t planned on letting you see me, but...” He shook his head, letting the words trail off.
“It’s been two years, Micha.” The anger came roaring back, though she managed to keep her voice steady. “Not only did you let me believe you were dead, but after all this time, you couldn’t be bothered to get in touch with me and let me know you were all right. Why now?”
She took a step toward him, still trying to rein in her emotions, not entirely sure she was succeeding. Once, the big man sitting at her kitchen table had known her well enough to see right through to the heart that beat erratically inside her chest. If he still could, then he’d understand the complicated mixture of raw pain and sadness, anger and, oddly, defeat.
Since he hadn’t responded, she took a deep breath and continued, as ruthless as she knew she had to be. “I’ve moved on, Micha. I’m finally getting on with my life. I’m dating a very nice guy, Harry, and—”
Micha pushed to his feet, towering over her. “I know, Carly,” he said, his voice rough. “And believe me, I’m well aware I have no right to show up and disrupt your life. I just couldn’t stay away.” His gaze blazed with heat. “I tried, Carly. Believe me, I tried.”
Something—maybe his palpable anguish or the way the heat in his eyes brought back memories of his big hands on her skin—had her taking a half step toward him. Pushing to his feet, he met her halfway, sweeping her up against his broad chest, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was everything it shouldn’t have been.
Two years vanished in a flash. For weeks, months, she’d dreamed of this, yearning for him, aching for his loss, so how could she possibly let him go? She might be full of regrets later, but for now she chose to give in and ride this wave of welcome passion. For the first time since learning of his death, Carly Colton came alive.
She denied him nothing. Greedily, she clung to him, allowing herself to touch his muscular, still-familiar body. Despite the velvet warmth of his tongue alongside hers, part of her still couldn’t help but wonder if she might wake up to learn that this turned out to be yet just another dream.
But the force of his arousal pressing against her had to be real, her own body heavy and warm in response. Her skin tingled and she couldn’t shed her clothes fast enough. Gaze locked on hers, he did the same.
More scars crisscrossed his chest, his stomach, and wound a horrific path down his arm. She noted these, knew she’d ask about them later, but all she cared about now was the man inside his skin.
Unbearable, this craving. She was weak, yet on fire, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears, ecstasy spiraling with each stroke of his tongue against hers.
Naked finally, skin to skin, her flesh on fire. He called her name, a guttural moan, as his lips seared a path to the hollow of her throat.
She arched her back, giving herself over to him even as she tugged him closer, wanting him inside her. Needing him inside her with the heat of a thousand suns.
“Wait,” he
