The tips of his fingers trace my cheek, and I find myself leaning forward. Good Lord, I think I’ll want him forever.

His hand cups my jaw, holding me. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Upstairs. To his bed. Or mine. And then . . .

The thought of tomorrow has me moving back, fumbling to my feet.

Macon’s gaze follows my body, a smile still in his eyes. “Eager. I like it. You know, if I’d have known how agreeable you’d be after a kiss, I’d have kissed you in high school.”

He sounds so much like the Macon of old, the one who used to taunt me, that my skin grows cold. “To shut me up, huh.”

Macon rises more slowly than I did but much more gracefully. “You gotta admit, kissing is better than fighting.”

It’s so easy for him to brush off the past. I can only assume it’s because our shared past didn’t leave scars on him like it did on me. I don’t know how to feel about that. “That was a mistake.”

He blinks, his body rocking back on his heels. “A mistake.”

Panic claws up my throat. I was practically humping Macon on the sand. What the hell was I thinking? “An aberration—a small flight from reality.”

“I get the picture,” he cuts in irritably. “And that is bullshit.” He pushes a hand over his wet hair. “It was fucking perfect. Right up until you decided to run from this.”

Again, he makes it sound so easy. He, who has the least to lose. Then again, everything has come easily to Macon. He expects the world to fall right in his lap. I’m just another fool for him.

My chest grows tight, and words fly from my mouth. “I don’t even know what this”—I wave my hand between us—“is.”

His lips pinch. “About fifteen years in the making by my count.”

“Fifteen years? Are you saying you liked me back then? Because I won’t believe that.”

A scowl darkens his features, and he sets his hands low on his lean hips. “I wasn’t mooning over you, if that’s what you’re asking. But there was always something, Delilah. I don’t know what to name it. Not love. Not hate. But something. Like an itch that wouldn’t abate. You were always there, under my skin.”

Under my skin. That was the truth of it. “So what, now you want to scratch that itch with sex?”

He laughs without humor. “You think this is just about sex? You think if we fuck that this”—he copies me and waves his hand—“is going to go away? Think again, sweetheart.”

The smarmy tone has me seeing red.

“Oh, you make me so . . . so mad!”

“And why is that?” He takes a step closer. “Why do I make you mad, Delilah?”

“Because you always do! You always have.”