“Yeah? You got very angry, earlier.” I thread my fingers through his hair. “Almost like you’re emotionally invested.”
“It would look bad if you got murdered by your stalker. You’re very high profile; I’d never live it down.”
I run my hand down to his collar, fiddling with the buttons. “I think the thought of me getting hurtkillsyou,” I mutter. He doesn’t say anything, watching as I slowly pop the button on his collar. “Because, no matter how much you call mebossy,” I undo the next button, exposing a triangle of hard, tanned skin, “orspoiled,” the next button goes, “or adiva,”I slide my hand slowly under the thin fabric of his shirt, and watch a shudder roll through him. “I think you actually really like me,” I whisper.
He reaches out suddenly, grabbing my hand. I look down at our linked fingers, my heart starting to pound.
“It does,” he says, his voice rasping. His eyes burn into mine. “It kills me to think of you getting hurt, Briar.”
Something in me softens. I flatten my hand across his bare chest. “I’ll try to stay out of trouble. Promise.”
He snorts. “You couldn’t stay out of trouble if your life depended on it.”
“I said I’dtry.”
He turns my hand over, running his thumb over the delicate skin of my wrist. “Did I scare you?” He asks quietly.
“At the event? No. I wanted to stab your eye out with my stiletto.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you tried, the way you were kicking me.” He shakes his head. “When I screamed.”
I frown. “I wasn’t scaredofyou. I was just scared someone was hurting you.”
His mouth twitches. “Sounds like you care about me too, then.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? Because you’re in my bed. In my arms. Cuddling me after a nightmare.” I try to pull away, and he squeezes me closer. “Doesn’t seem like something you would do for someone you hated.”
“I despise you,” I inform him primly.
He leans closer until his lips brush against my ear, and I’m overwhelmed by the soft, sweet smell of his laundry detergent. “I’m sure.”
“I do. You’re an asshole—”
“You’re a diva,” he counters easily.
“You’re high-handed,” I continue. “Bossy.”
“So are you.”
I scowl. “I’m notbossy,Iamyour boss, you utter knob.”
“Spoiled,” he lists. “Demanding…”
“I’massertive,notdemanding, that’s so bloody sexist—” I break off as he suddenly rolls us both over, pressing me to the mattress. His weight is hot and heavy over my body. I can’t breathe. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I unconsciously lick my lips.
“Rude,” he adds, his voice soft.
“Only to people who deserve it,” I whisper. “I can be nice.”
He reaches out to touch my hair, his blue eyes gleaming dark, then curves his hand behind my head. Heat thrums through my body as he strokes my cheekbone with his thumb. “I don’t think I’d like you nice,” he mutters.
Then he sinks his hands in my hair and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before.
Thirty
Briar
