Page 3 of Compulsion

“Are you all right?”

Gentle fingers graze the back of my hand, harnessing my full attention.

Touch.

Dane is touching me. I feel the softness of his skin brushing mine, lighting up my nerve endings with awareness. My fine hairs stand on end, and a shudder races through me.

After my ordeal, I should be repulsed by a man’s proximity. But the sparks that dance over my strangely chilled skin are subversively alluring.

How many nights have I fantasized about this stunning man when I’m alone in my twin-sized bed?

The time spent pleasuring myself while thinking about his sexy accent must’ve warped my brain, because my core heats for him even as my stomach turns.

I jerk my hand away as though he’s burned me; I’m horrified at my twisted reaction to his tender touch. The flat white goes flying, and hot, espresso-darkened milk splatters his crisp white shirt just before the mug smashes on the polished hardwood floor.

Even the curse word that drops from his lush lips sounds sensual in his cultured accent.

“I’m so sorry!” Mortification washes through me in a searing wave. Mercifully, it burns away my trauma response.

I grab a clean cloth, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve rounded the coffee bar. I’m standing in front of Dane. My frenzied focus is fixed on the ugly brown stain that mars hisperfectly tailored shirt. I press the cloth against the mark, and it soaks up some of the coffee while leaving the brown splatter clearly visible.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, dabbing at the stain as though it will make any difference.

Long fingers ensnare my wrists, halting my panicked blotting. My entire body goes rigid, and I freeze like a spooked doe.

“It’s fine.” His voice is soft and soothing, as though he senses my spike of fear at the masculine shackles around my wrists.

But he doesn’t immediately release me. His thumbs rest directly on my pulse points, and I’m not sure if my blood is thrumming through my veins from panic or from the hit of intense arousal at his firm hold.

“It’s okay. Breathe, Abigail.”

A scent like salt-kissed cedarwood with a hint of peppery spice suffuses my senses. I must be imagining the slight tightening of strong, sure fingers on my wrists—my jittery mood is messing with my perception of reality.

“Oh my god, Dane!” Stacy appears beside us, her tone sharp with disapproval that’s directed at me. “Are you all right?”

“It’s just coffee,” he reassures her. “I have time to change before work.”

He’s still touching me.

He shouldn’t be touching me. This prolonged contact is making my stomach flip and my hands shake, even as my core heats with feminine awareness of the beautiful man who stars in my fantasies.

As though he senses my mounting distress, he slowly eases his fingers from my chilled skin, his thumbs brushing my pulse points one final time.

My arms drop to my sides—a marionette with her strings cut.

It’s all I can do to keep my knees from folding. A visceral sense of relief? Or loss?

“Look at me, Abigail.” That same soft but compelling tone in his delicious accent.

My eyes snap to his, and I’m locked in his steady gaze. This close, I can see the striations of hunter green that deepen the verdant forest shade of his eyes. His irises darken at the edges with an almost black ring that makes the rich hues vibrant despite the more muted color palette. Thick, black lashes form ebony frames around his remarkable eyes, enhancing the intensity of his stare.

“It’s all right,” he says, a low, intimate promise meant just for me.

“But I might’ve burned you.” The words drop from my numb lips. I’m so cold, despite the heat flashing beneath the surface of my frosted skin.

That lush mouth tilts in an arrogant smirk. “I’ve had worse than anything you could throw at me.”

“But your shirt?—”

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