I yelp.
“Goddammit,” I cough, waving a hand in front of my face, now powdered like a sugarplum ghost. “Okay. That’s it.”
He raises an eyebrow as I walk toward him with dangerous intent.
“Don’t you dare?—”
I smear my sugar-covered hand across his chest.
He growls.
Literally.
“You have two seconds to run, cupcake.”
I don’t.
Instead, I flick sugar at his nose.
“Oops.”
He grabs me.
Effortless.
One minute I’m smug and sticky, the next I’mairborne, tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I shriek, laughing and kicking, but he’s solid. Immovable.
Andgrowling again.
“Put me down!”
“Say you surrender.”
“Never!”
He smacks my ass lightly. “Suit yourself.”
He dumps me onto the couch with a bounce, towering over me, and suddenly the room tilts. His eyes are dark. Focused. Tracking every movement I make like I’m prey.
My chest rises. Falls. Rises faster.
His fingers trace the edge of frosting on my collarbone. “You’re a mess.”
“Always.”
“Bet you taste like sugar.”
“I taste better than that.”
He leans in.
“Prove it.”
His lips are inches from mine.
My pulse spikes.
His hand slides along my jaw, rough and warm, and I forget how to breathe. Forget where I am. Forget that I came here for a TV show and not to fall into a blizzard of lust and flannel.
