But with this woman . . . He’d made the split-second decision to do it differently, and now he was in so deep. Opening up to her, showing her that painting as if she gave a damn about the faint hope he’d clung to as a boy that his parents didn’t hate each other quite as much as they always seemed to. And she had. She’d glanced back at him with those soulful eyes that saw so fucking deep, and asked him questions about his life. She’d acted like she cared.

It warmed something in him that had gotten so cold.

Dropping her gaze back down to her crepe, she tugged at the paper it was wrapped in, and a smile teased the edges of her lips. “Just as well.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Skipping the whole fancy dinner thing.”

“Yeah? You like this better?”

“I do.” She took a careful bite and chewed. “But I think you knew I would.”

“I had a hunch.”

She was the kind of girl more interested in the experience than the cliché. The food over the ambiance. The romance of open air and a warm Parisian night.

“Good hunch.”

By the time they’d finished up their entrees, they’d wandered into a busier part of the neighborhood. Colored lights from restaurants and storefronts made the darkness glow, and the pavement seemed to shine, the air buzzing with sounds of life that didn’t quite manage to pierce their bubble.

He tossed the wrappers from their crepes in the trash, then took her hand and led her over to a low stone wall that separated a patch of grass from the sidewalk. She’d grown increasingly accustomed to him touching her as the day had rolled on. At this point he was damn near addicted, craving more and more. Releasing her fingers, he trailed the backs of his knuckles over her thigh through her skirt, over the smooth, bare skin at her knee. It sent fire licking down his spine, but he forced himself to pull away. He breathed hard against the simmer of arousal in his blood, but his voice pitched lower all the same.

“Have you had a Nutella crepe before?” He unfolded the paper protecting it. The contents had cooled, but they were still warm enough.

“No, but I’ve never met a Nutella anything I didn’t like.”

“You’re not about to be disappointed. The funny thing is that they should be the same anywhere. The filling comes from a jar, and the crepe is just flour and milk and eggs. But their griddles must be magic, because”—he tore off the gooey corner of the crepe, the edge crisp, and brought it up toward her lips—“these, my friend, are the best dessert crepes in the city.”

“Those are some pretty high expectations you’re setting.”

“And yet you’re still going to be blown away.”

Her expression was skeptical, even more so when he tsked her attempt to take the bite from him with her hands, insisting on feeding it to her directly. She rolled her eyes but opened that soft, pretty mouth, and his throat went dry. This was cliché, was so close to the kinds of seductions he’d carried out without thought before, but never with this kind of anticipation. Never with this level of focus on how close they were, this dedication to savoring every sight, every sound. Maybe because he’d had to work so hard for every one of them.

He placed the morsel on her tongue with care, barely grazing the edge of her lip with his fingertips, tempted to press his thumb inside and feel the warmth of her closing her mouth around him. But no. Not yet. He let his hand fall away while his body thrummed.

Gazing straight at him, she rolled the flavor around in her mouth, taking her time about it. Once she was done, she smiled, eyes sparkling. “Okay”—her voice trembled, her only tell that the low intimacy of his feeding her was affecting her as much as him—“that’s pretty amazing.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He tore off a piece for himself and then another for her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said when he offered it to her again. Embarrassment colored her cheeks, and they couldn’t have that.

“Of course I don’t.” He made as if to pull the crepe away. “I don’t have to share my dessert with you at all.”

Except he did. The desire to slip that sweetness between her lips had risen to the point of need.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ha-ha.”

“I’m not joking. I’ll take this and walk away.”

She paused for just a second. “No. You won’t.”

It wasn’t said as a challenge but as a statement of fact. Something in his chest gave a little twist. It bothered him, that she was right, but it was offset by a deeper understanding of what they were saying. His throat went rough. “And you’re not going to, either.” He swallowed hard. “Open up.”

A long moment passed as they gazed at each other. She tilted her chin upward before softening her jaw, lips parting gently. He didn’t move his hand, but she bowed her neck, keeping her gaze steady as she dipped to take the bit of crepe from him. He watched the way she moved, the bob of her throat, the pink of her tongue as she swiped it across her bottom lip.

And he wanted to tell her a line, something about how Paris wasn’t as pretty as she was, or about how he adored her mouth. All the words that came to him were true enough—as true or truer than when he’d said them in the past. But for one time in his life, the delivery felt false.

So he held his tongue as he fed her and fed himself. When they were done, she had a dab of chocolate at the corner of her lips. He brushed it away with his thumb, and her cheeks pinked. She shifted her gaze and shifted her body, looking off to the side as if something had caught her attention, but if there was anything to see there, it’d slipped right past him.

At the moment, all he was seeing was her.

“Was it good?” he asked, leaning in close. He liked the smell of her hair, the soft sheen to her skin. “Was it everything I promised?”

He would promise her a lot of things, if there was any chance she’d believe them. Things about how he could make her feel good. About what he could do with his tongue.

She nodded stiffly. Her shoulders had gotten tense. She looked at him, though, and her eyes held an invitation. He just had to strip a layer of fear from her. Distrust. Whatever was holding her back.

Slipping his hand over the breadth of the stone between them, he placed his palm atop her knee. Edged in close so his breath washed hot across her cheek. “Open up,” he said quietly.

His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, and she was sweet and warm, letting him kiss her for just a moment. Just a heartbeat. Then she was turning away, a little stutter to her breath.

The warmth of the space surrounding them shivered, but he closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. Pressed another soft kiss to her cheek. “What are you afraid of?”

A huff of a laugh escaped her throat. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing with me.”

“No game.” He’d played games all his life. Had thought he was starting one with her when he had picked her up, but it didn’t feel like one now. He let his voice deepen. “I just want you.”

She looked away, off into a distance. “And that’s the thing.” Turning her gaze back to him, she said. “That’s the part that I don’t understand.”

Kate held herself together tightly as those words hung in the air. She could hardly believe she’d said them.

For God’s sake. She wasn’t a demurring flower or anything. She knew her weaknesses and her strengths: pretty enough but not a knockout, talented but not so talented she didn’t have to work hard. The idea that a guy wanted her wasn’t entirely the norm, but it was hardly an alien concept.

Men were good at telling a woman what they wanted to hear. And then turning into something else entirely the second you let your guard down. Her father had done it to her mother—had played with Kate’s head, too. Until she’d tried to push herself into a shape that was all wrong, just to please him, leaving her with phantom aches to this very day from twisting herself so hard.