Page 63 of The Dis-Graced
I feel a rush, dizziness, and for a brief moment, I worry I might have a head injury, but as the heat settles in my loins, I realize it’s just good ole’ fashion lust.
His lips are moving again, but this time, when he sees the confused look on my face, he takes one of my earbuds from my ears, inserts it into his own, and for the briefest of moments, we are both listening to the blood-pumping beat of Mortal Kombat.
“You really go old school with your workout,” he says with a raised brow.
“It helps me keep a consistent pace, so I listen to it on loop.”
“Well, it doesn’t help you stay upright.”
Heat radiates from my core, all injuries forgotten.
Drake sits, back on the balls of his feet, gazing down my body.
“Are you okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice.
I stretch out my legs, my arms, my neck. “Everything feels fine. My shoulder might be bruised, though.”
“Maybe I should take you in to get a scan done, just to make sure.”
ALAN’s voice fills the room. “Judging from her movements, it’s unlikely anything is broken, strained, or torn.”
“Oh,” I sit up, startled, “I guess I should have expected a full diagnostic.”
“That was not a full diagnostic, but I’d be happy to provide you with a rundown of the events leading to the accident. Grace had run four-point-eight miles in thirty-one-minutes-and-seven-seconds. When Drake entered the room, she got distracted, and her breathing grew erratic—”
“Okay, ALAN—enough!”
I look over to see Drake downcasting his eyes and suppressing a chuckle.
“Don’t even act like you don’t micro-movement the fuck out of me.”
Drake puts up his hands in a ‘surrender.’ “I said nothing.”
His tone is a bit rough, but not in an aggressive kind of way. It’s more like sandpaper, like he’s parched. I want more than anything to kiss those lips of his, moistening them with my tongue.
I close my eyes and desperately try to force all thought of him from my mind. Drake Dallanger isabsolutelythe last person I should be havinganyinappropriate thoughts about.
Fuck it. You have a lead on a job. It’s not where you expected your career to go, but at least you’ll be reporting real news.
His hand touches my shoulder, I can’t help but let out a little squeal.
“Did that hurt?”
Should I tell him that it wasn’t pain so much as it was the rush of blood coursing to my loins? Probably not.
“It’s fine. I think it’s just a little sore, but it will be fine.”
“I think it’s going to bruise.”
“If a bruise is all I walk away with, I’ll count myself lucky.”
His lips purse as his eyes rove my body, and without warning, my core surges with desperate want.
“You were working up quite a sweat in there,” he finally says after drinking me in for a solid minute. “You might want to take it easy from now on.”
“Yeah, I’ll be more careful.”
“And maybe stop eye-fucking me.”
