And I don’t understand why we’re in here.
Until he moves.
Stalking.
Slow.
Focused.
And I back up.
Because when a man like that walks toward you with intent, you back the fuck up.
But he doesn’t seem to care. He keeps coming at me.
Step by step until my hips hit the counter behind me.
No escape.
Not that I’m trying very hard.
And that’s the damn problem. I don’t want to try hard to leave. Not now. Not when I’ve already had a taste of him.
Truth is, I think I’m addicted. And that scares the crap out of me.
David’s hands are on me before I can spiral, before I get another word out—strong at my waist, gripping my softness—and then I’m lifted, like I weigh nothing, set on the counter with a soft thud that sends a jolt through me.
My legs fall open on instinct. On reaction. On something deeper, I don’t want to examine too closely.
And then he steps in.
Right between them.
Close. So damn close—and yet he’s still too far. Separated from me by layers of fabric.
“Hilary,” he growls, and God help me, my name has never sounded like that before. “Tell me what that was in there with him.”
“What are you talking about?” I shoot back, even as my pulse spikes. “We were just talking?—”
“Just talking?” His eyes flash. “Sounded like he was asking you out.”
“Well, maybe he was!” I snap.
“Why didn’t you tell him you were mine, linda?”
And that snaps me out of the pseudo sexual haze I’ve been floating around in.
This fucker. Who does he think he is?
“Am I yours? I mean, what the hell am I supposed to think?”
His jaw tightens.
“After last night?” he says, voice dropping even lower. “I’d think it was pretty fucking obvious.”
Oh. Oh well, that hits.
Because there it is. The thing I’ve been trying not to say out loud.