Page 9 of Sweet Hate
The awkward silence drags out before his eyes trail down, taking in the splatters of white slipping slowly down my bare cleavage. His nostrils flare, and he gulps as I watch a muscle ticking in his jaw. I wonder if he’s thinking of elephant orgies, too. Or if he’s thinking of the times he…nope.
NOPE.
I’mnotgoing there.
I bite my lip, heat creeping across my cheeks, and his eyes snag on the movement before they come back to meet mine.
Why does he have to look so good?
My heart rate picks up, the fire smoldering in his gaze freezing me in place.Is he getting closer? Am I?Before I can process, his brows slam down, his eyes narrowing as he glares at my hand.
“You’re bleeding.”
Oh, yeah. Right.
“It’s fine. Just a nick.”
He shakes his head, his hand snaking out to grip mine and examine the cut. His warm touch is gentle as his thumb strokes across my palm. I stand there in complete and utter disbelief as he moves my hand toward his mouth.
Surely he isn’t going to kiss it better—what are we, five?
Before I can pull away, say something, anything…he sucks my finger into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip as he licks up the blood. Releasing it with a pop, he plants a soft kiss on my hand before reluctantly letting it go so it falls to my side.
Fuck. Me.
What the hell was that? And why don’t I hate it?
Butterflies riot in full force, and I don’t even want to mention the reaction his little vampire act just had on my panties. He isn’tsupposed to be causing any of those. He hates me, I’m not a huge fan of his—end of story.
Right?Right?
This is bad. Really fucking bad. I need to blow this popsicle stand. And fast.
Fuck the lasagna.
“Right, OK, well, this has been great. I’m sorry about the…” My words die and my hand—what the heck? It’s flopping around like a limp fish right now, with no sign of stopping.
Christ, get it together girl.
“I really should be going. Please let Grams know once we can get in and sort out the bakery. Okay, thanks. Bye.”
I spin on my heel to hightail it out of here when his hand reaches back out and grabs my wrist, sending a jolt of electricity shooting up my arm, and I almost slip in the puddle of sauce and glass I was trying to avoid.
Slowly, I stare down at where his big hand is wrapped around my wrist. My eyes snap up to his face, but his gaze is still burning a hole into our joined hands.
I wait for him to say something, anything, but he stays silent.
Awkward.
I give my wrist a slow tug, and his eyes finally rise to mine. I know I should look away—hell, I should run away, but I can’t. Especially not when his thumb strokes my inner wrist, trapping my breath in my throat.
Silently, he takes a step closer, edging me backwards, his eyes never leaving mine.
As he crowds me against the shelves, I’m hyperaware of the warmth rolling off his body, my senses misfiring in direct response. That yummy leather smell invades my senses, and that's when I notice his worn, soft-looking biker jacket.Does he ride a motorcycle now?
His thumb burns, stroking the inside of my wrist, branding me. His nostrils flare as his tongue darts out, running slowlyalong his lower lip. Without the perpetual frown he’s been sporting, he looks a lot more like my best friend and a lot less like this man who hates me.
He was my favorite person in the world once. He meant everything to me, and there was a time I thought I meant something to him too.
