Page 16 of Then Came You

My heart is beating wildly like a drum at his touch. Each stroke ignites a fire within my belly and kindles further below.

This hug feels too good to be real. As he envelops me in his warmth, I feel safe and secure—something I haven't felt since Dad died.

"Well, that's the best welcome I've received in a long time," he murmurs in my ear, brushing his nose against the shell.

I pull back, lowering my feet to the ground.

"And this is a nice surprise. It's sort of been a shitty day," I lament.

It doesn't escape me that I have to look up to see the glint in his gorgeous green eyes. His eyes are nothing like my mediocre ones. They're dangerous and dazzling, and I automatically liken them to Jafar's cobra-headed sceptre used to mesmerise and hypnotise, because that’s what I am. Hypnotised.

The upward curve of his lips tells me he loves my candidness.

I wonder what it is about him that gets me to be so open and honest with him. We seem to have skated right past the point of familiarity, considering I fell asleep in his car, and he's seen the impoverished conditions I live in.

"You're telling me. I'm sorry it's been a couple of weeks; I've been inundated," he apologises, his fingers tracing gentle circles on my wrist, his touch soft and sensual, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

"Want to tell me about it?"

"Only if you tell me about your days."

I rock back and forth like an excited cheerleader. "Deal. What are you having today? You know you don't actually need a haircut, right?" I eye the effortless way he styled his hair today, noticing not a strand needs touching.

"How about you clean up my beard then?"

I observe his salt and pepper five o'clock shadow.

"You have stubble," I point out.

Continuing to look at his jaw, which quite frankly could put supermodels to shame, I think about what a disservice it is to women when a man shaves that yummy scratch.

My face must betray my dissatisfaction at the thought of him removing this delicious piece of body hair.

"No? You want me to leave it?" he questions, teasing because he's caught me in the middle of my dirty thoughts again.

Why does he keep doing this to me!

Continuing to sway, I admit, "I'm partial to a bit of stubble."

"Are you now?" He arches an eyebrow, making my body tingle at where this conversation seems to be heading. I nod emphatically to get my point across.

I'm a firm believer that the only hair that should be between a woman's legs is a man's beard.

"The stubble is sexy." I cringe, screwing my face in contortion. "I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Yep. I won't lie; it gives me great pleasure knowing this little fact." He ameliorates all the stupidity I'm feeling right now. I'm a kettle about to explode at his words. "If you won't cut my hair, and you insist, how did you word it? Oh yeah, you insist I keep the stubble because it's sexy, what should I get done then?"

"Another massage?" I'm itching to get my hands on him again. Soothing him relaxes me. I learned that last time when I lost all sense of it and ended up giving him a ten-minute massage.

"I'm never going to say no to your hands on me," he winks. My mouth opens like a fish out of water, and I find myself gulping for air.

He. Did. Not. Just. Say. That.

I clear my throat and remember my manners.

"Want a drink?"

"Let's get one after," he says so offhandedly. With a purposeful stride and shoulders back, he exudes an air of self-assurance and confidence in every step he takes toward the basin. It's refreshing, and hot as hell.

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