Page 8 of Own Me, Outlaw
Then I feel her hand brush my arm—light, curious, bold. Her fingers are soft against my skin, and I have to bite back a groan.
"I don't care what other people think of you," she says.
I finally turn to look at her, and the certainty in her eyes nearly brings me to my knees. "You should."
Her dark eyes search mine, and I see the moment she makes her choice. "But I don't."
God help me, she means it.
And that's the part that scares me most.
Because I want to believe her. Want to believe that someone could look at me and see something other than the man who destroyed his life for a friend who barely speaks to him anymore.He’s a respectable family man now, and he can’t associate with someone convicted of a felony. Even if the felony was his.
"Dinner's on the stove," I mutter, stepping away before I do something we'll both regret.
She nods, and I catch the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "Good. I’m starving."
I keep busy while she sets the table. It's the first time I've shared a meal with someone in years, and somehow, it feels natural. Easy.
Too easy.
I could get used to this.
I slide a bowl of beef stew across the table and sit opposite her, trying not to stare at her lips or the way her sweatshirt keeps slipping off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone.
"You always cook like this?" she asks, blowing on a spoonful. The steam rises between us, carrying the scent of herbs and slow-cooked meat.
"Only when I'm trying to impress a trespasser."
She grins, and it's like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "Mission accomplished."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, save for the occasional murmur of appreciation from her. The stew is good—I learned to cook the hard way, out of necessity—but I can barely taste it. All I can think about is that kiss. Her mouth. The way she tasted like tea and rain and something I've been starving for without realizing.
When she stands to rinse her bowl, I move to take it from her, and our hands brush. The contact is electric, sending sparks up my arm and straight to my chest.
She freezes.
So do I.
We're close now. Too close. I can count the smattering of freckles across her nose. Can smell the vanilla scent that clings to her skin.
Her eyes flick to my lips.
And I almost lose it.
But I step back instead. Just an inch. Just enough to keep from reaching for her.
She exhales slowly, cheeks flushed pink. "You're really trying not to touch me, huh?"
"Trying real damn hard," I rasp.
"Is it working?"
I don't answer.
Because no, it's not. It's not working at all.
She lets out a shaky breath and pads back toward the living room, bare feet silent on the hardwood. She curls up on the couch with the blanket again, tucking her legs under her, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from following.
