Page 22 of The Road to You
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see them behind my shades. Or at least I think he can’t, considering he caught me checking him out.
The silence between us stretches for a moment until his smirk deepens, he stands and dusts off his hands, then starts walking toward me with a little too much casual ease. He moves slowly and deliberately, like an animal preparing to attack its prey. And from the gorgeous, cocky grin on his face, he is sure he has already won.
“What are you doing?” My voice pitches higher as he reaches me, his hands sliding under my body before I can react.
I barely have time to yelp before he lifts me up, arms locking around my waist and knees as I instinctively clutch at his shoulders. His warm skin against mine sends pleasant shivers down my spine.
“Michele!” I squeak when I realize what he is doing.
Too late. He strides straight into the water, taking me with him. And then the cold hits me. Freezing, bone-deep cold.
I gasp as the water rushes up, swallowing me to the shoulders. My entire body jolts at the contrast between the summer heat and the icy pool, which is almost unbearable.
“You’re insane!” I shriek, pushing at his chest. But I’m laughing. Goddamn him, I’m laughing. It was so unexpected that I’m not even mad at him. Considering where my thoughts were headed, I needed a cold bath to chill my overheated hormones.
He laughs too. A deep, rumbling sound that sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through me, in direct contrast to the water. It’s not helping my cause that his hands are still on my waist, steady and firm, holding me close. Damn, not even the icy water is helping me. How can his skin be so tempting underneath my fingers? And those droplets running down his shoulders? They’rebeggingmy tongue to run over them.
“You needed a cold shower,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. He leans in just slightly so I feel the rough scrape of his stubble tantalizingly close to my cheek. “I saw you biting your lip while checking me out.”
My stomach drops. He is totally right. I was biting my lip, trying not to moan, thinking about how he would feel between my thighs while I straddle him. I indulged way too long in that thought.
“I was not.” My voice is embarrassingly breathless.
His grip tightens. Not enough to trap me. Just enough to make me feel it. The tension, the awareness sparking between us. There is an electricity running between us that is way too dangerous for two people submerged in water.
I suddenly realize how little space is left. My gaze flickers to his lips and my heart stutters. They’re parted just slightly, with water glistening along their shape. His tongue darts out, catching a stray drop that slides down the corner of his mouth, and a traitorous thought slams into me: I want to do that. I want to chase every bead of water down his skin with my own tongue, follow the inked lines of his tattoos with my mouth, and feel the taut muscles beneath my hands.
His fingers flex against my waist, and I swear I feel the heat of them through the cold water.
I need to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret. Now.
I abruptly push away, standing up so fast I nearly slip. “I’m freezing,” I blurt, grasping at the excuse like a lifeline. “I need a hot shower.”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. I just turn and rush inside with my pulse hammering, my skin burning, and the ghost of his touch still lingering on my body.
Forty minutes.It takes me forty damn minutes in the bathroom to get a grip, to wrestle my pulse back under control, and to focus on anything but Michele’s hands on my waist, his lips parting ever so slightly, his breath warm against my face.
I can’t do this. Not with Preston’s name still making the rounds in the gossip magazines back home, his tongue practically down Ronan’s throat in every new photo. Greta saysnot to worry, that the headlines will die down eventually. But Tabia is more honest, or better, not tiptoeing around the truth. She tells me the fire is still burning, fueled by every new sighting. They might not have found me in Los Angeles yet, but it’s only a matter of time before someone blows my cover. Thinking about Michele inthatway right now is confusing and makes me feel guilty. Because, at the end of the day, I’m not like Preston, and if a relationship is still unclear, I don’t dive into another one, even if it’s just a summer fling.
I exhale sharply and push open the bathroom door. But the moment I step into the kitchen, everything I spent forty minutes suppressing comes rushing back with brutal, delicious intensity.
Michele stands at the stove, a glass of wine within easy reach, completely at ease in his own skin. And by skin, I meanbareskin because the only thing covering his body is a loose pair of linen pants hanging low on his hips, clinging to his butt in a way that makes my throat go dry.
The massive snake tattoo curling over his back shifts with every movement as he stirs the sauce in the pan. The flicker of the warm kitchen lights catches the lines of his muscles, making them stand out in sharp contrast. He looks like he belongs here, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. Casual. Effortless. Devastatingly sexy. And maybe he has, considering how well he knows his way around the kitchen.
I should say something, but instead, I juststare. After a beat, he turns, catching me red-handed. His brows lift in amusement before his lips curve into a slow, knowing grin.
“Finally,” he says, and damn, even his voice is as smooth as a caress. “I thought you were dead in there.”
“No,” I manage, stepping farther into the room. “Just needed to warm up a bit. The water out there is freezing.”
A partial truth, but not the full story. Fortunately, he doesn’t call me on it. Instead, he reaches for a second glass and hands it to me. The deep red liquid swirls inside.
“I’m making pasta with tomato sauce. Nothing fancy,” he says. “You okay with that?”
The fact that he’s cooking, that he already thought about dinner, makes my stomach stir in ways that have nothing to do with hunger. I love it when a man doesn’t expect me to cook for him. I’m a nightmare deciding what to eat, and most of the time I end up ordering out.
“Hell, yes,” I say, taking a sip of wine.
