“What?”

He groans and runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t mean that. Fuck, of course I don’t. I just—” He turns away. “We need to get back to town.”

I get in front of him. “No, we need to talk. If you don’t want me in Rockton—”

“Of course I want you here,” he says. “That’s the fucking—”

He bites it off and turns again, ready to leave the other way, but I block him again.

“Don’t do this, Casey,” he says, his voice low. “Just let me go.”

“And leave me here? In the forest?” It’s a low blow, and the turmoil in his eyes almost makes me regret it, but I’m determined to hash this out.

I step closer to him.

“Back up,” he says, barely unclenching his jaw.

“So you can run away?” I say. “No. If you don’t want me here, Eric, you’re damned well going to tell me now, not leave me dangling—”

I don’t see it coming. One second I’m telling him off, and the next I’m against a tree, his hands on my hips, his mouth coming down to mine. There’s one split second of What the hell? followed by another second of Shit, this is a bad idea, but by then he’s kissing me and I don’t really give a damn where it came from or how lousy an idea it is.

He’s kissing me, and that’s all I think about, all I can think about, because it’s no tentative “Is this all right?” kiss. Nor does it go from zero to sixty in five seconds flat. It starts at sixty and stomps down on the accelerator. I’m against the tree and he’s kissing me like I’m the first woman he’s seen in ten years, and he’s not wasting one moment getting this kiss to its ultimate destination.

His hands are under my shirt, running up my bare sides and around my back, pulling me against him. Once, when he has to stop for breath, he gives a ragged, “I don’t want to do this,” but before I can even decipher the words, he’s kissing me again, as if the sentiment didn’t pass from his lips to his brain.

He says it again, as he breaks the kiss when my belt doesn’t unfasten quite as fast as he’d like, but this time it’s only, “Don’t want to,” before he continues wanting to and doing so, yanking out my belt and pulling at the button on my jeans, and kissing me so hard my lip catches in his teeth, and there’s a jolt of pain, just enough to zap the top layer of lust from my brain, enough for me to hear his words again.

I don’t want to do this.

Don’t want to.

I could ignore that. He’s leading, so I can just let him take this where he so obviously intends to take it, where he so obviously wants to take it, despite his words.

I’m squelching my doubts as hard as he is. I want this. Hell and damn, I want this. My whole body ignites at his kiss, at his touch, at the feel of him against me, and I want more. More, more, more, and now.

I don’t want to do this.

Don’t want to.

I shudder, and he takes that for passion and stops tugging my jeans over my hips and lifts me up onto him instead, straddling him as he pushes against me, his hands going to my face, holding it between them as he kisses me. A two-second break in the momentum for a sweet, deep kiss, and that’s all I need. One moment’s delay and a sweet kiss to remind me that this isn’t a stranger I met in a bar, quick sex in the back hall, never to see each other again.

This is a guy I care about, and some part of him doesn’t want to do this, and if I let him, it’ll be guilt and shame and That was a mistake and It won’t happen again and awkwardly avoiding each other. And it’ll be more than that. It’ll be heartbreak, because I care about him, more than I really want to care about any guy, and when it’s over, I’ll have sacrificed something good for five minutes of passion.

His hands drop to my waist again, pushing my jeans down, the lust reigniting, the kiss deepening, his breath coming harsh as he sees the end in sight and—

I pull back. “No, Eric.”

He doesn’t seem to notice, just pulls me to him again, pushing between my legs as he flips open the button on his—

“No, Eric.” I put my hand on his chest and push him. “Stop.”

He blinks. Then he pulls back, sucking in breath, and before I can even catch a glimpse of his expression, he steps away, letting me drop, and then turns and strides off.

Two

Dalton storms off and leaves me struggling to get my jeans on, and I feel like I’m back in tenth grade, kissing Matthew McCormack behind the school when his hands slide under my shirt and I push them out, and he takes off in a snit, never to speak to me again. Which is understandable at sixteen. It is not understandable at thirty, and as I watch Dalton walk away without a backward glance, I slam my fist into the tree, which is absolutely the stupidest thing I could have done, and I bite my lip to keep from yowling.

I cradle my hand, eyes closed, rage and frustration whipping through me so hard the pain almost feels good.

Damn him. God-fucking-damn him. And damn me, too, for not stopping him the moment he pushed me against that tree.

If you didn’t want it, asshole, why did you start it? Start it and then tell me twice you didn’t want to, like I’m a witch who cast a spell over you? Sweetest damn thing a guy has ever said to me.

I’m going to fuck you, but I really, really don’t want to.

I almost slam my fist into the tree again. I settle for stomping the ground, and not caring if I look like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. I should throw a tantrum. My life needs more of them. More? Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I lost my temper, and God knows I have good reason.