What the hell, Emilia!
You hate this guy, remember?
I hear a sharp intake of air from him and I know he feels it too — this new tension between us. His fingers flex against the fragile bones in my wrists, as though he’s fighting for control. Not over me; I’ve long since stopped struggling.
Over himself.
“Tell me your name,” he murmurs, shattering the silence. There’s a new edge in his voice that wasn’t there before. “Tell me who you are.”
A reckless part of me wants to whisper something crazy —I’ll be whoever you want me to be— just to see how he’d react. To throw down a challenge and watch him rise to meet it. To let him use his capable hands to erase every raging feeling in my bloodstream until there’s nothing left but mindless passion.
“I already told you,” I force myself to say instead. “I’m no one.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because your IQ is even lower than your standards, judging by the lipstick stains on your collar?”
“Is someone jealous?”
“In your dreams.”
“Mmm.” His nose grazes my throat again and I feel my stomach flip. “I do have a rather active imagination…”
“You’re heinous,” I inform him in a voice that would be much more convincing if it weren’t so damn breathy. “Now, let go of me.”
He doesn’t respond. He also doesn’t loosen his grip.
“You said you’d let me go when I was calm.” I swallow hard. “I’m calm.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
His thumbs stroke the paper-thin skin covering the veins in my wrists and I feel my heart skip a beat in response. “Then why can I feel your pulse pounding?”
“My pulse tends to do that when I’m pissed off.”
“Mhm.”
Gritting my teeth, I strive to regain some control over my traitorous body. Frankly, it’s not listening to my brain at all anymore. It seems to be taking commands from another organ entirely. One south of the border, with a very different set of priorities.
Damn, damn, damn.
I suck in a bolstering breath and rack my brain for an escape route from this increasingly precarious situation. “Fine. Don’t let me go.” I shrug. “Fair warning, though, I’m about to throw up.”
“Car sick?”
“Nope. Being pressed up against you is making me nauseous.”
He chuckles lowly. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
He pauses for a long time. When his whisper hits my ear, I feel my internal temperature spike.
“Liar.”
I can’t think of anything to retort with because, well… he’s not wrong. The truth is, being pressed up against this man is making me feel many things, andsickisn’t one of them. If I’m feverish, it’s only from desire.