I laugh, the sound husky and raw in the bathroom. “You’re actually pushing me to live up there alone with North?”

The sour expression grows. But he shrugs those massive shoulders, water rippling as he moves. “I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust.”

And right there, he has it.

“I’ll stay here.” It comes out in a whisper. But he hears it just fine and releases a breath as though he’s been holding it.

“Okay. Good.” With an impish glint, Macon sinks a little farther into the bath. “Now about us . . .”

“Can we take it slowly?” I blurt out. My body doesn’t want slow. It wants now. But the shy girl I once was has more control over me than I realized. And she’s cautious.

“We can do anything you want.” He pauses, rubbing the corners of his mouth. “Define slowly.”

It’s cute the way he thinks I can’t see him plotting my sexual downfall.

“As in we don’t immediately have sex.”

Macon frowns. “I don’t like that definition.”

I laugh at his disgruntled look. His answering smile is small and repentant but just a little wicked as if he enjoys teasing me. Crazy thing is, I enjoy it too. I try to be stern, though I’m probably failing at that. “Macon, I just got to the point where I only want to kill you some of the time instead of all of the time.”

Macon chuckles. “There is that improvement.”

We share a look, a lifetime of irritations and misunderstandings, grudging respect and mutual admiration flowing between us. We’re changing, neither of us knowing exactly how to do it, but we’re trying.

“We can go at whatever pace you set.” His thumb glides over the back of my hand in a slow, seductive circle. “However, I have a proposition.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re leading me into trouble?”

His answering smile is lopsided and growing. “It’s only trouble if you don’t like it.”

“Stop giving me those sexy eyes.”

“Sexy eyes?” He chokes on an incredulous laugh.

“You’re looking at me like you . . . you . . .”

His eyes gleam with wicked intent. “Want to stick my head between your thighs and slowly lick you until we both come?”

A strangled sound leaves me as a pulse of pure lust hits my sex. I want to touch myself, press against that ache to relieve it. “Macon . . .”

“Because that’s what I’m thinking half of the time,” he goes on levelly. “When I’m not thinking about kissing your soft mouth or easing up your top to finally—fucking finally—see those gorgeous tits.”

“Macon!”

“Delilah,” he shoots back with cheek.

God, I want him to do all those things and more. I want to strip him down, lick his warm skin. Lick him up like ice cream melting off a spoon. Why did I say anything about going slow?