Should leave and go to the guest room.
Hell, I should leave Jace’s condo all together and get a fucking hotel room.
But, for some reason, I can’t make myself.
For some reason, I can’t stop myself from reaching forward and smoothing back those hairs.
They’re soft, way softer than I expect and maybe that’s why I don’t immediately lift my hand, why instead of doing what’s prudent, I start sliding my fingers through his hair, sifting through the locks. I memorize the texture, the feel of them shifting over my hand, the even cadence of his breath and slow and steady rise and fall of his chest.
I linger, soaking it all in.
It’s dangerous.
Dumb.
Yet, I can’t stop.
I just keep stroking, just keep my feet planted, my mind focused on this small thing.
Keep touching Jace Henderson.
Until my phone buzzes in the pocket of my hoodie and…
I process how truly insane I’m acting right now.
Only then do I jerk my hand away, a gasp bubbling up in my throat. I barely manage to stifle it as I skitter back a step, as I turn to leave?—
His arm snakes out, hand clasping the top of my bare thigh, and this time, my gaspdoesescape.
Cheeks flaring hot, embarrassment seeping out of each and every one of my pores, I glance down, see that his eyes are open, and an apology forms on my lips. “I-I’m—” But that’s as far as I get.
Just as well, anyway.
Because he takes over on the speaking front.
His voice is rumbly, a little drowsy when he asks,
“Why’d you stop?”
Eight
Jace
I expectto face fire and barbed wire.
Yeah, she was the one who was touching me first.
Still, I expect a verbal retort.
Maybe even a physical one—a hand covering mine, bending back my finger until I have to release that succulent thigh or risk a broken bone. Maybe a kick to the balls, nails clawing at my face.
What she gives me…
Is anything but that.
Her hand covers mine, stroking light fingertips over the back, lifting goose bumps on my flesh, making my cock go hard.
Hell, who am I kidding?
