Page 52 of Property of Tacoma
I whip my head around and glare at him. “Don’t ‘Angel’ me. I asked you a simple question.”
His face softens, the cocky smirk fading. “I’m sorry. That was a dick move.” He runs his free hand through his tousled dark hair, sighing. “This isn’t... I’m not used to this.”
“To what?” I demand, throwing my arms up, still half-poised to flee.
“To having a woman question me or my motives.” He rubs a hand across the top of his head, his expression turning serious. “No, Melanie is not my girlfriend. She’s never been my girlfriend. Yes, we’ve fucked, but that’s all it ever was.”
I study his face, looking for any sign he’s feeding me bullshit. His eyes meet mine steadily, unflinching.
“You’re the first woman I’ve had in this house,” he adds quietly. “In this bed.”
Something warm blooms in my chest at his words, but I’m afraid to trust it. “Why me?”
His brows draw together, like he’s asking himself the same question. “Honestly?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “All I want is the truth.”
He lets out a deep breath. “I don’t know yet, Angel. I just know you’re different. I can’t explain it.” He shakes his head, looking almost frustrated with himself. “I feel it in here.” He slaps his palm against his bare chest, right over his heart.
My cheeks warm at the raw sincerity in his voice. Because I feel it too—this inexplicable pull, this sense that somehow he’s different from anyone else I’ve ever met. This insane knowing in my heart that I’m supposed to be here.
I tip my head so I can look him directly in the eyes. “Thank you.”
His brows snap together. “For what?”
“For telling me the truth.” I shake my head, feeling vulnerable. “I’ve been lying here thinking that I’m crazy for feeling this,” I wave a hand between us, “I mean, it’s been a day. That’s nuts, right?”
He closes the distance between us and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “No.”
I bite my lip, hardly daring to believe him. “Really?”
Instead of answering, he kisses me—soft and sweet and somehow more intimate than anything we’ve done so far. When he pulls away, he offers me his hand. “Really.”
Taking his hand, I suddenly feel shy as he leads me across the room to his bathroom.
It’s surprisingly nice—slate gray tiles, a large walk-in shower with a rainfall shower head, and a double vanity with dark granite countertops. Masculine but clean, with fluffy white towels stacked neatly on a shelf.
He releases my hand to turn on the shower, and steam quickly begins to fill the room as the water heats up.
When he turns back to me, his eyes are dark with renewed desire.
“Come here,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.
I step into his embrace, my body fitting against his like we were made for each other. His hands slide down my back to cup my ass, pulling me against the hard length of him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my neck. “I can’t get enough of you.”
The shower glass has fogged up, and he leads me inside, the warm water cascading over both of us. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting it soak my hair and run down my body.
When I open them again, Tacoma is watching me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
He reaches for a bottle of body wash, squeezing some into his palm before setting it aside. He works it into a lather between his hands.
“Turn around,” he says softly.
I obey, and his soapy hands begin a slow exploration of my body, starting at my shoulders and working down my back.
His touch is reverent, almost worshipful, as he maps every curve and dip.
