Piotr’s eyes narrow, but he backs off with a shrug.
Bodhi ignores him.
Before I can react, he’s climbing into the backseat, fast and decisive, his massive frame filling the doorway and blocking Piotr’s line of sight completely. The car dips under his weight as he moves toward me, and suddenly, the spacious backseat feels impossibly small.
I scramble backward until my shoulders hit the opposite door, stubborn anger flaring hot and sharp in my chest.
He keeps coming, crawling over the leather seat, one hand now planted beside my hip, and the other beside my head, caging me in. The scent of him surrounds me, and my stupid, traitorous body responds with a flush of heat.
“What are you doing?” I snap. “Back off.”
He’s so big. Up close like this, hovering over me, it’s overwhelming. His big body blocks out everything else. His thighs bracket mine. If I breathe too deeply, my chest will probably brush against his.
“Emma.” His voice is low, and that deep rumble vibrates through the small space between us. “Move.”
I stare up at him, my heart beating so hard, so fast, that I’m sure he can hear it. This close, I can see the individual stubble on his jaw, a small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and the way his pupils have blown wide in the darkness. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before snapping back up.
For a moment, I forget why I’m angry. Forget where I am, what’s happening, forget everything except the solid wall of him above me, and the warmth radiating off his body. My lips part, and I feel myself soften, leaning up toward him without meaning to.
Then I remember.
“No.”
“Emma, for God’s sake…” he mutters through gritted teeth.
“NO.”
I draw my knee up and aim a kick straight at his chest.
He catches my ankle before it connects, his hand wrapping around it easily, fingers calloused but warm against my bare skin.
I try to yank free, but his grip is iron, and then his other hand is there too, sliding up to the strap of my stiletto.
“These will have to go,” he murmurs, and his thumb traces along my instep as he unbuckles the shoe, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends tingles racing up my leg and pooling somewhere much lower. “Can’t have you taking my eye out.”
My breath catches. I hate him. I shouldhatehim. So why is my skin burning everywhere he touches?
“Let go of me.”
He removes the other shoe with the same maddening slowness, his fingers brushing against my calf, my ankle, the arch of my foot.
Every touch feels deliberate, electric, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
Then his hands wrap around both my ankles, and heyanks.
I yelp as I’m dragged down the leather seat, my dress riding up around my thighs, until I’m flat on my back with him looming over me.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”
Blinking, I don’t break eye contact, even as I buck suddenly underneath him, trying to squirm out from under him, but it’s pointless. He’s too strong.
When I finally give up, his hips settle between my legs, and I gasp as I feel it, the hard, unmistakable press of his erection against my inner thigh.
My eyes widen.
He freezes, then his weight shifts just enough to pull back from me, like the contact is information he didn’t want to share.
He was lying. I am his type.
