“Like what?” I ask, moving closer to her.
She looks up. Mouth open. Eyes wide and ready. But also with a glint of self-respect in them, like she knows she needs to stop this. She turns away without responding.
I shrug and go to the hood, pop it. Take a look at her ancient vehicle. What a piece of junk. “You’re going to need to call someone out,” I tell her after a few minutes. “Can’t fix this, here.”
“Oh, great,” she says, sighing. “Like I have the money for that.”
“I can handle it,” I reply. “In the meantime, I can give you a ride home.”
She tilts her head at me. Knows she shouldn’t. Knows she shouldn’t trust the tatted stranger. But maybe she feels it too.
This connection that’s making my cock ache, but my soul sing.
4
MARA
Is this a bad idea?
I don’t know this man. He hasn’t given me a straight answer about why he keeps popping up in my life. Yet there’s this weird warmth in me. Like a growing reassurance that I can, that Ishouldtrust him. It’s a connection that makes no sense. One, I should fight with everything I have. Where issensiblewhen I need it?
He moves even closer. Almost touching me now. His hard body radiates waves of heat.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says huskily. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” I whisper.
“Because you feel it. I know you do.”
I bite down. That makes his eyes blow wide for a second. He scans me every time I move. Like each movement makes him think something savage and urgent. His chest heaves, and his tattooed hands twitch at his sides.
“Feel, what?”
“Come on, Mara,” he says. “Let me help you.”
He turns. Walks across the street. In my head, Dad scolds,I taught you better than this …
But despite feelings of uncertainty, I listen to the improbable voice. The one that tells me I can trust this stranger.
He leads me to a sleek sedan and opens the passenger-side door. When I move to climb in, he steps forward. His body brushes up against mine.
Oh my … Electric passion seizes me, my clothes are suddenly way too tight. Through his jeans, I’m sure I see the huge outline of his desire. Maybe it’s just the way his jeans are twisted. Is he seriously as hard as a freaking rock for me? Here, in public?
I climb in, smooth my hands up and down my legs. Fight the insane urge to press my hand between my legs and ride my own palm.
He gets into the driver’s seat, takes a toothpick from his pocket. Chews on it as he starts the engine.
“Address?” he says.
I give it to him.
“An apartment.”
“I’m living with a friend,” I murmur. “I was in a house until … well, I was in a house.”
He glances at me. Eyes dark yet sparking with hunger, with curiosity. “You don’t want to talk about it.”
An image flashes into my mind. Dad. The blood. The horror.
