Chapter 874
The kiss was a war. It was rough, demanding, a desperate attempt to impose his will, to smother her accusations with the sheer force of his presence.
Caroline fought back, her fists beating a frantic, useless rhythm against the hard wall of his chest. Her tears continued to fall, a salty, bitter stream that mingled with the kiss, changing its very nature.
The moment he tasted the salt of her tears on his lips, the battle was over.
The raw power in the kiss dissolved. The punishment vanished, replaced by something else entirely, a deep, aching tenderness. A desperate apology. He was no longer trying to conquer her; he was pleading with her. His lips softened against hers, moving with a gentle, searching pressure, trying to soothe the hurt he had caused.
She felt the shift, the sudden, stunning change from aggression to supplication. The fight drained out of her. Her fists unclenched, her hands flattening against his chest. Her body betrayed her mind, her lips parting, responding to him with a will of their own.
The kiss deepened, becoming a long, slow conversation without words. It spoke of anger and pain, of jealousy and longing, and finally, of a reluctant, overwhelming surrender.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other. His breath was hot against her skin, his grey eyes searching hers, holding her captive.
“Tell me,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “Tell me why you’re so angry.”
He already knew the answer. But he needed to hear it from her. He needed the confession.
A deep blush spread across her cheeks. She felt a hot wave of shame at how easily her body had given in. She bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the floor. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
His splinted left hand came up, his thumb gently tilting her chin, forcing her to meet his intense gaze.
“Say it,” he commanded, his voice a low, seductive growl.
His kiss had shattered her defenses. The words came out in a low, resentful mumble, the admission dragged from the deepest, most vulnerable part of her.
“I don’t like the way she looks at you.”
She had said it. The jealousy was out in the open.
“And I don’t like that you smell like her,” she added, the words tumbling out now, a reference to the cedar and leather that clung to him, to his office, to Sloane.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Jarrod’s face. It was the look of a man who had just won a war he was terrified of losing.
All the panic, all the desperation, vanished. It was that simple. She was jealous. Which meant she cared. Deeply.
Seeing his smile, a fresh spark of anger ignited in her. “You think this is funny?”
He immediately schooled his expression into one of seriousness, but he couldn’t hide the triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He lowered his head, his nose brushing against hers, his voice dropping to an intimate, possessive whisper.
“I only care about one scent.”