Page 32 of Burning Ember
He slides his fingers over my tender folds and glides smoothly to the core of me, where I’m warm and wet, and aching for him.
I bang my head against the wall, making athunksound.
His breathing stops.
Heat rushes into my cheeks.
Coming back to my senses, I realize I’m not supposed to be enjoying this. If I was the innocent girl he thinks I am, I should be upset, right? Indignant? Pissed off he thinks he can touch me how and where he wants?
I latch on to his wrist. Frantically, pull his hand from my shorts. “There. Happy? No drugs. If you still don’t believe me, check my arms, or give me a drug test.”
He grips my arms tightly. Roughly spins me around. Because of the high heels, I wobble as I try to stay on my feet. I grab on to him to steady myself.
We’re so close. Too close. All I see is him. His scent engulfs me completely. We both stand there. Motionless. My vision is filled with him, his neck, the small wrinkles in his leather jacket, the silver chain circling just above his collar. A muscle in his jaw begins to tick. My gaze shifts to a four-inch scar running along the line of his jaw, partially hidden by his five o’clock shadow. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. It’s then I notice how erratic his breathing is. How the pulse in his neck beats wildly. But why?
I slowly lift my eyes to his face. His irises are liquid gold again.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s lust in his gaze, but that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe I’m mistaking desire for hatred.
He lowers his face. The coarse hairs of his stubble scratch across my temple. He breathes into my ear. “Remove. The. Claws. Doll.”
Huh?I blink up at him.
Then he looks down.
I follow his gaze to my hands gripping his biceps.
Oh. Oops.
A tingling sensation shoots through me. I pry my hands off him and as I do, I see that my nails have left half-moon marks on his skin.
“Hold out your arms.” His accent, usually slight, comes out thicker. It sounds like he’s from somewhere on the east coast, New York maybe.
I hold out my arms and take a step back so I don’t touch him.
He reaches forward, inspects my inner elbows.
“Never been a fan of needles. I have a low tolerance for pain.” Another reason why Warner and I weren’t meant for each other.
He grunts. “These what I think they are?” He rubs his thumbs over the scars at my wrists. Prickles of desire shoot up my arms like sparkler sparks.
Nope. Not going there.
I’ve already made up my mind about those scars. Let people believe what they want. As far as I’m concerned, I’d rather have them think I tried to kill myself than tell another living soul about the nightmare I lived through.
“Did you bring me in here to learn my deepest, darkest secrets or search for a wire and drugs?”
His eyes flash with anger instantly. He jabs me in the chest with his finger. “Watch your mouth.”
Not physically possible.But I’m not about to tell him that.
“Sit.” The chilling glare is back.
“You know, I’m not a dog,” I say under my breath.Or a cat for that matter.
He growls, “You’re whatever the fuck I say you are. Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”
I sit, without meaning to, because . . .oh shit. . . I think I just lit his fuse.
