Page 118 of Burning Ember
“Nothin’,” Mav replies.
Edge’s haunted eyes shift from Mav to me. His gaze slides down my body. “This the redhead you threatened to cut my balls off if I touched? This your girl?”
Mav comes toward me until he’s blocking me from Edge, standing right in front of me. His hand slides down and his fingers intertwine with mine. Looking into my eyes, he says, “Not yet, but I’m workin’ on it.”
There are men you should love, because they’re great men, and then there are men that simply take the choice away from you.
EMBER
We pass two doors before Mav unlocks one and pulls me inside. Daylight streams in through the window across from us, shedding light on the queen-sized oak bed up against the wall, and the Berber carpet that’s seen better days. The space is half the size of his other room, and there’s a subtle citrus scent, as if it’s recently been cleaned.
“It’s not much,” he says, “but I won’t be living here, just crashing in it when I need to.”
I take in the wrinkled champagne-colored comforter. “The bedding looks new.”
He nods. “It is. The mattress too.”
We’re both staring at the bed. The air around us buzzes with awkward silence and sexual tension.
Mav clears his throat and turns fully toward me.
He’s so devastatingly handsome that it’s almost crippling, and I have to force my body not to react on the outside though inside it’s lighting up like the fourth of July.
There’s a good amount of stubble covering his jaw. The cut on his lip is nearly healed and he’s no longer sporting the bruises Dozer gave him. In fact, his cheeks are tan and sun kissed, which does incredible things for his light eyes.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. It draws my attention to our joined hands. His big warm hand dwarfs mine. His hold is relaxed enough that if I wanted to pull away, I’d be able to, and I like that.
He steps closer. At the same time, he raises my chin. “You thought it was me with Star?”
Even the mentioning of it has my stomach curling into knots. There’s no point it denying it.
“They were going at it in your room, rather loudly, what else was I supposed to think?” I say as heat skyrockets to my cheeks.
Almost shyly, he asks, “How did that make you feel?” He tilts his head and searches for the answer in my eyes.
How did it make me feel?
Like a wrecking ball had crashed into me.Like I’d eaten raw fish and it was having a war with my stomach. Like I’d barely given myself permission to hope for something only to see it turn to smoke and ash.
I can’t say any of that though. Instead, I shake my head.
He lays his palm over my stomach. “Did it make you sick?” he asks softly. My skin heats and my abdomen muscles contract underneath his hand.
Yes . . .
I close my eyes to fight the pull of him. But it’s overwhelming. My body’s waking up from the death it just experienced, and I’m aware of every breath, his and mine.
“Doll?”
The cadence of his tone is changing. It’s almost pleading . . .
His hand moves to lay over my pounding heart. I feel him. And when I say I feel him, I mean Ifeelhim. His touch isn’t just skin deep, it goes all the way down to every part of me, wraps around all my vital organs, and travels back up only to pierce my heart.
“What about here?” he whispers this time. And I swear I can count his heart beats through the veins in his palm.
Oh, God. . .
I can’t breathe . . .
