The heat radiating from his body seeps into mine, overwhelming and consuming. My ruined dress clings to my damp skin, plastered to me like a second skin, the torn silk doing nothing to shield me from his gaze.
Sweat slides down my collarbone, my stomach, and my lower back. I suck in a breath as his eyes follow the droplets of moisture on my chest, eyes lingering a few moments too long.
His hands bracket my face now, fingers threading through my sweaty hair, tugging just enough to make me tilt my head back, to make me feel the power thrumming beneath his skin.
I swallow, my chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts. My body betrays me; suddenly, I can’t stop shaking.
“Are you done running?” His voice is low, making a measured mockery of me.
I glare up at him, my pulse pounding against his grip. “Go to hell,” I snarl.
His lips twitch, amusement flickering in the depths of those dark, unreadable eyes.
“Already there, darling.”
And then his hand slides lower.
His fingers trace the line of my throat, dragging over my collarbone, slipping beneath the shredded fabric of my dress, the backs of his knuckles grazing my bare, damp skin—a barely-there touch, so subtle yet so devastating.
I shudder, my breath catching.
I hate him, but my body betrays me.
My fingers twitch against his chest, aching to shove him away, aching to pull him closer. My stomach coils tight, my knees clenching together, a futile attempt to silence the pulse of heat spreading through me.
His smirk deepens.
“You feel that?” His voice is nothing but sin, his fingers trailing lower still, a whisper of dominance. “That little tremble?”
I grit my teeth, forcing the words through my lips. “I hate you.”
He hums, tilting his head, watching me.
“No,” he says simply, his fingers curling around my hip and dragging me against him. The hard press of his body against my stomach, unmistakable and unyielding, sends a hot flush surging through me. A sharp, helpless sound slips out, full of rage, frustration, and fear.
Hayden chuckles, dark and low, his lips ghosting over my ear. “Admit you like it,” he breathes.
I shake my head.
His grip tightens.
“Say it.”
“No.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers twist in my hair again, yanking just enough to bare my throat to him, to make my breath hitch. To make me cry out at the sting of it. God, it hurts.
His lips graze my jaw, a cruel promise.
“Run again,” he whispers. “I dare you.”
I should.
I should shove him away, spit in his face, claw at him until he bleeds.
But I don’t. Instead, I just breathe. I breathe in his scent, smoky, warm, masculine.
I just tremble while Hayden Herron smiles like he owns me.
