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I want his lips, his touch. I want his heat.
I want everything he can give and more.
Best of all, I know that he wants it, too.
“Damien,” I whisper, then release him as I fumble at the knot on my hip. The sarong is thin and gauzy, but it will suffice as a makeshift blanket.
His hand closes over mine, and I tremble with anticipation. I draw my hand away, then close my eyes, more than willing to let him undress me.
Except he doesn’t.
I stand for a moment, confused and disoriented, then open my eyes to find him looking at me. I see the desire on his face, as vibrant and wild as my own need. And yet he makes no move to touch me again. On the contrary, he takes a single step back, his eyes never leaving mine.
He is denying us both, and that simple fact both pisses me off and turns me on.
I gather self-control around me like a cloak, then lift an eyebrow. “Playing games, Mr. Stark?”
“Absolutely,” he says, with a wicked grin. “And just in case you’ve forgotten, I don’t play if I can’t win.”
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