“Macon—”

His mouth is on mine, his hands tunneling into my hair. He goes all in, taking my mouth like he owns it. Devouring me just as thoroughly as any meal. And I let him. For all my fears, I feel it too, this desperate need, that maybe I won’t get another chance to touch him.

And then it changes, becomes soft and melting. I melt right with it, falling into him. He makes me weak in my knees, in my heart. Maybe I do that to him as well, because he stumbles a bit, his back bumping into the wall, his hands still holding me close.

He pulls away to catch his breath. And I’m the one following, my hand on the column of his neck, my mouth seeking his. I need more. Another taste. The feel of him. With a groan, he dips his head, giving me what I need.

“You’re killing me, Tot. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with you.” Hot words against my skin. I swallow them down, lick them up. Savor him. And he lets me, pressing his body against mine as if he can’t get close enough.

Because he can’t. Somehow, it’s never enough when it comes to us. There must always be more. Another touch. Another taste. Deeper, harder, longer. He is the rich sweet so long denied me. And I am his. I feel it in every touch that lingers, every breath that catches, the hot stroke of his tongue, the greedy movement of his lips along mine.

His grip on me tightens for a second, and then both of his hands slide up to cup my jaw. When he speaks, his voice is rough and earnest, his words flowing over my lips. “I adore you.” Another hot, greedy kiss. “I fucking adore you, Delilah Baker. Every. Damn. Inch.” Each word punctuated by mouth meeting mouth. “That’s what I pulled you out here to say. Because I couldn’t take another minute of you not knowing that.”

Giddiness bubbles up within me, and I find myself laughing softly as I keep kissing him. “I adore you too, Macon Saint.” Because I do. Every bit of him, even the dark corners where he fears to tread.

“Shit,” he groans, spinning so I’m pressed to the wall. His thick thigh slips between mine and grinds against my sex. I whimper, and he does it harder, slower.

“Let’s go upstairs.” I’m panting now, my hands stealing under his shirt to find the hot, smooth skin of his waist.

From down the hall comes the sound of laughter. North says something, and there’s another round of laughter. Macon pauses, our lips brushing with each ragged breath. “Fuck. We need to get back.”

That I forgot where we are is disconcerting, and I nod but can’t seem to make myself move. “Do we have to?” I’m swollen and slick. My breasts ache where they press into the hard wall of his chest.

Macon huffs out a sound that’s close to a whimper. “It’s your dinner party. Behave, because I’m holding on to a thread here.”

With a regretful sigh, I push him away. “Then don’t kiss me again. All rational thought flies from my brain when you kiss me.”

His eyes crinkle. “That is not an incentive for me to stop kissing you.”

“If you do, I’m taking you upstairs.” I can’t stop myself from tracing the swollen line of his lower lip. He nips my finger, and I yelp even though it doesn’t hurt. “Evil man.”

Macon laughs, more carefree than I’ve ever seen him. And it takes my breath. He takes my hand in his and tugs me back toward our guests. “When everyone leaves, I will be.”

“Promises, promises.” But I know he will deliver. So I follow him willingly, happiness flowing through my veins like sunshine. This is happiness. It’s so pure and fragile I feel the need to treat it with the delicacy of soufflé, fearful that the slightest mishandling will deflate the whole thing.

When dinner is over and our guests are leaving, Ronan Kelly pulls me aside and says he’d like to work with me. “We can discuss terms, but you’d be head chef, full creative control with the menu. I’ll be responsible for the capital and promotion.”

“I have a place in mind,” I tell him, trying to hold in the urge to jump around and squeal. I tell him about the location and my idea for it.

“We can go take a look next week,” he promises.

And like that, my dreams are all falling into place. I’ve never been more terrified. Because when you truly want something, it will hurt that much more if it gets taken away.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Delilah

“I want to move.” Delicately shaking, slickly sweating, I strain against Macon’s bulk. It’s no use; he has me pinned to the chair, his cock thick and pulsing deep inside. And not fucking moving.