Infuriating.
Erotic?
Oh my god.What is happening to me right now?
“Take your hand off of my wrists,” I wheeze, and this time my lungs are useless from vexation, not smoke.
“No.”
No?I blink up at him angrily.
But he seems unaffected by stares or curses, so I kick his shin with all my might. Planting my Ariat cowgirl boot with intent.
He doesn’t even flinch. But there’s a reaction in his eyes. A smolder.
Oh no. Not happening. Body, you are not allowed to respond to this monster.
A hint of a grin tightens the corners of his stupidly attractive lips—the kind that are hard, but soft and surrounded by scruff. As this happens, the band he’s made with his hand tightens around my wrists.
The words he pairs with those movements are equally as effective at setting off my alarms. “You like to play rough, kitten?”
He didn’t…
For a few seconds I breathe hard, until I can shove out five words. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Oh, I know. Your body gave it away before you could put up that shield of anger. And don’t even think about kicking me in the balls. You’ll have real trouble on your hands.”
Good idea. I should have aimed there the first time. But he’s got me hemmed in.
Unfortunately he’s really strong. I tug my hands using all my strength to get free from the heat of his grip. But he holds fast.
And if he doesn’t want to let go, there’s no chance I’ll be able to get away.
I might be a pro rodeo rider, my body is strong, my hands are working hands, but he’s twice my size.
Whoever this tool is, he’s BIG. All over. Including the hip, which has a ridiculously muscled thigh attached to it. Which happens to be between my legs, keeping me pressed against his truck.
Do not think about that!
“Now, mind your manners while I call the fire in,” hemutters as he pulls out his cell phone from his back pocket, his pelvis is still grinding against mine. The motion is even more arousing as he deals with the phone. I almost make a sound, and I’m scared it might be a moan.
Christ.
New beads of sweat pepper my hairline and this time it’s ninety percent anger, ten percent arousal.
“Good, you call 911.” I laugh harshly, feeling more than a little insane. “I’m going to scream that I’m being held against my will by some crazy maniac.”
“You’d be accurate.”
He stares me down as the call goes through and the 911 operator’s voice carries over the line. But when I open my mouth to scream…he’s leaning down next to my ear whispering two low, rough words.
“Caleb Allison.”
His targeted strike snags the sound in my throat.
How does he know my brother’s name?
It registers a second later, while he’s still talking to the emergency operator, that he said my name a few moments ago.
