Free The Ring on Her Finger by Elizabeth Bevarly Page A

glanced away before she looked up and caught him. And she did look up while she was cleaning, though whether it was because she liked looking at him, or because she was afraid he might be looking at her, he couldn’t say. He did like looking at her, though. He liked it too much. All he could do was hope like hell she didn’t like looking at him, too. Because if they both liked looking, there was too much potential for doing. And doing was strictly forbidden, since Max wasn’t allowed such pleasures anymore, and Lucy had a rock on her finger the size of Alcatraz that signified she was meant for someone else.
    Since he needed reminding of that, Max forced his attention to that very ring. It was still on her left hand, still ugly, and still representative of her intention to marry another man. It didn’t matter if Lucy looked at him. It didn’t matter that she made him want things he’d sworn he would never have again. She wasn’t his to nudge. She wasn’t his to collide with. She wasn’t his to laugh with. She belonged to someone else who obviously intended to keep her forever.
    Then again, that someone else wasn’t here now, Max couldn’t help thinking as he watched her finish cleaning up. And if that someone wasn’t here now, then who was going to inform Lucy that, during her cleanup, she had somehow gotten a little smudge of salad dressing on her face?
    The timer on the microwave beeped, jolting Max out of his thoughts. But he couldn’t bring himself to retrieve his dinner and head back to his apartment, the way he knew he should. He just couldn’t bring himself to look away from that little dab of dressing on Lucy’s upper lip.
    “Hey,” he said, as she strode by him, presumably to return to her paperwork at the desk.
    Without thinking, he circled her wrist loosely in his fingers to halt her forward motion. Immediately, he both regretted and rejoiced in the action. She really was soft. Warm. Womanly. The silky caress of her skin against his bare palm was a sweet torture, one he couldn’t resist. Just the feel of his fingers wrapped around her wrist made Max remember what it was like to lie with a woman, to be buried inside her as she clung to him, bucking beneath him, groaning her need, her passion, her absolute ecstasy.
    Ah, hell.
    No matter his discomfort, however, Max couldn’t make himself let go of her. The contact was just too damned nice for him to end it yet.
    At first, she seemed not to be as affected by the touch as he was. But when she glanced at his face, her pupils dilated, and her cheeks darkened with color. She didn’t pull away, didn’t comment on his touch. Max wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. So he decided not to think about it. And he decided not to end it.
    “You, ah...” He halted when he realized how rough his voice sounded, how ragged it felt. “You, um...” Still unwilling—unable?—to release her wrist, he pointed at her face with his other hand. “You have salad dressing on your lip,” he finally finished, forcing a smile.
    Her eyes went wide, and she swiped at her upper lip with the back of her hand. But she just missed hitting her target.
    “No, here,” he said.
    Again, without thinking—or maybe he was thinking more than he wanted to admit—Max brushed the dressing away with the pad of his thumb. But he pretended it was bigger than it really was, pretended he needed to touch her a second time, just to be sure he got it all. Then he realized he wasn’t pretending about needing to touch her a second time. He really did need to touch her again. Then he was doing more than touching—he was cupping her jaw in his palm and gazing into her eyes, wondering what she would do—wondering what he would do—if he leaned forward and covered her mouth with his. He took a single step forward to do just that. Then, thankfully, sanity returned. Reluctantly, he released her and shoved himself away, back to the counter, where he scooped up his plate.
    “Thanks for your