“Abigail?”
I suck in a shocked breath when my name in his lilting accent hits me like a gut punch.
My mind scrambles, and I struggle to continue practicing what I remember of the grounding technique I learned from the single therapy session I did in college.
Taste, smell, see, hear…
I’m forgetting one of my senses. There’s something else I should focus on to complete the act of grounding myself.
But all I can think about is that stark white skull glowing through the darkness of my apartment in the middle of the night. The fear that tasted like copper on my tongue. The abject horror when my body?—
“Are you all right?”
Gentle fingers graze the back of my hand, harnessing my full attention.
Touch.
Dane is touching me. I feel the softness of his skin brushing mine, lighting up my nerve endings with awareness.
After my ordeal, I should be repulsed by a man’s proximity. But the sparks that dance over my strangely chilled skin are subversively alluring.
How many nights have I fantasized about this breathtaking man when I’m alone in my twin-sized bed?
The time spent pleasuring myself while thinking about his sexy accent must’ve warped my brain, because my core heats for him even as my stomach turns.
I jerk my hand away as though he’s burned me; I’m horrified at my twisted reaction to his tender touch. The flat white goes flying, and hot, espresso-darkened milk splatters his crisp white shirt just before the mug smashes on the polished hardwood floor.
Even the curse word that drops from his lush lips sounds sensual in his cultured accent.
“I’m so sorry!” Mortification washes through me in a searing wave. Mercifully, it burns away my trauma response.
I grab a clean cloth, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve rounded the coffee bar. I’m standing in front of Dane. My frenzied focus is fixed on the ugly brown stain that mars his perfectly tailored shirt. I press the cloth against the mark, and it soaks up some of the coffee while leaving the brown splatter clearly visible.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, dabbing at the stain as though it will make any difference.
Long fingers ensnare my wrists, halting my panicked blotting. My entire body goes rigid, and I freeze like a spooked doe.
“It’s fine.” His voice is soft and soothing, as though he senses my spike of fear at the masculine shackles around my wrists.
But he doesn’t immediately release me. His forefingers rest directly on my pulse points, and I’m not sure if my blood is thrumming through my veins from panic or from the hit of intense arousal at his firm hold.
“It’s okay. Breathe, Abigail.”
A scent like salt-kissed cedarwood with a hint of peppery spice suffuses my senses. I must be imagining the slight tightening of strong, sure fingers on my wrists—my jittery mood is messing with my perception of reality.
“Oh my god, Dane!” Stacy appears beside us, her tone sharp with disapproval that’s directed at me. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just coffee,” he reassures her. “I have time to change before work.”
He’s still touching me.
He shouldn’t be touching me. This prolonged contact is making my stomach flip and my hands shake, even as my core heats with feminine awareness of the beautiful man who stars in my fantasies.
As though he senses my mounting distress, he slowly eases his fingers from my chilled skin, his fingers brushing my pulse points one final time.
My arms drop to my sides—a marionette with her strings cut.
It’s all I can do to keep my knees from folding. A visceral sense of relief? Or loss?
