His smile grows—slow, wolfish, entirely too self-satisfied.
He lifts his gaze to mine, and there’s amusement sparkling in those hazel eyes that makes my blood boil.
“Ah. So that’s why you stormed in like a hurricane?” he murmurs, voice like velvet over heat. “Over a piece of lace?”
“I stormed in because you’re irresponsible!” I shout, hands shaking. “You said you weren’t interested in anyone! You said you wanted to focus on the game! And instead you’re out buying luxury lingerie for your—your princess!’”
He slides off the desk.
Slow. Deliberate. Predatory.
One step toward me.
I hold my ground, even though every nerve is screamingrun.
“Does it bother you, Sloane?”
“It bothers me that you’re unprofessional.”
“Bullshit.”
Another step.
Now he’s close enough that his warm, spicy scent messes with my brain.
“Does it bother you because you saw that picture and thought it wasn’t for you?”
My breath catches.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I spit—but my voice betrays me.
“Really?”
He reaches out and brushes a loose strand of hair from my cheek.
Light. Electric.
“You read the caption? ‘Easy to take off.’ Is that what’s driving you crazy?”
“Stop.”
“Did you picture my hands on that lingerie?” he murmurs, leaning in until his breath grazes my lips. “Or did you picture my hands onyou?”
I’m trapped.
Caught by his proximity, his gaze, the truth he’s flashing in my face.
I’m jealous.
I’m horribly, violently jealous, and he knows it.
He’s savoring every second.
But beneath the teasing, beneath the smug thrill in his eyes—
I see something else.
Hunger.
