Itishim. Beautiful, intense, walking toward me with an aggressive, almost hostile stride. His searing blue eyes are locked on me. How did I not notice those gorgeous eyes yesterday? I must not have looked him in the eye at all. I don’t know why I’m looking him in the eye now. I’m not myself.
I take a step back, but it’s unsteady. I stagger. I expect him to walk past me or maybe even run over me, but what he does is grab my arm. I jump. I try to pull away, but his grip is iron. It’s cold. Or maybe I’m just overheated?
“Easy,” he says, his voice a gruff whisper. “Breathe.”
“I’m—”
“Having a panic attack. It’s okay. Just breathe.”
“I’m not having a—”
“Do what I said. Breathe.”
Do what I said—or I will hurt you.
I shudder.
“You need air,” he tells me. He takes the broom from me and leans it against the shelves. When he tugs my arm, I start walking. He guides me through the deli, where Saul looks up in surprise. I don’t have time to be embarrassed. We pass right through the seating area and out the door to the tiny back patio.
It’s empty. Hardly anyone sits out here. It’s just a couple of white plastic chairs at a rickety aluminum table on a slab of concrete.
The man who’s taken control of me makes me sit in one of the chairs. I bite back a cry as I thump down, the plug jarring inside me. My stiff cock gets torqued in my jeans.
I angle my head down and away. I don’t want to be seen like this, not by anyone but especially not by this man. Not after the way I imagined him last night. Not when he’s so painfully beautiful.
Why is he helping me?
“I’m fine,” I mutter, hiding as best I can behind the sweep of my hair. “You can—”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
For some reason, and to my horror, that makes my eyes sting.Oh my god, don’t cry.
My … savior? sits in the other chair, giving me just enough space that I can drive back the sting in my eyes, that I can breathe. Like he told me to.
“That’s better,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “Keep breathing.”
He gives me silence so I can obey him. He stays with me while I calm down. I’m still hard, overheated, agitated, but I can think now, mostly. I look at him from the corner of my eye.
He’s wearing a buttoned lilac shirt. It looks really good on him with his dark brown hair and light blue eyes. I like that it’s not a typically masculine color. He’s so confident.
His jeans are dark, his shoes black and obviously expensive. He has money. He doesn’t belong on this grimy patio.
“What—why—I mean …” I trail off, not sure how to ask him what he’s doing here.
“Just ask me,” he says. He’s not sharp about it, not impatient, not laughing at me either. He’s not saying,God, you’re such a little pussy.
“You just … don’t look like our usual customer,” I hedge. “And you were here yesterday.”
“You remember me?”
I huff a self-conscious laugh. “Uh, yeah.”
I don’t have my eyes on his face, but I feel like he’s looking at me. Has he been looking at me this whole time?
He says, “I remember you too. Are you asking why I’m here?”
I nod, relieved that he’s filling in the blanks, then horrified when he answers, “I’m making sure you’re okay.”
