"Nah," he finally laughs. "Don't you worry, though," he flashes a knife, the silver shimmering in the light of my kitchen, making my heart pound with fear. "I have other means of ensuring you behave."
"What are you doing here?" I press again, terror weaning into my voice as I set my purse on the counter and grab my phone from it. His eyes track the motion, that wicked smirk sitting on his full lips as he does.
"Well, I figured I owe you a glass of wine," he beams, pointing at the bottle with his knife before folding the immaculate, black serrated steel weapon and sliding it into his pocket. As he works to pull the cork, his biceps flex, peeking out from the short-sleeve tee he's wearing, the immaculate dips and lines of his muscles drawing my attention whether I want them to or not.
More of his tattoos are on display in this shirt, though I can't quite make them out. All dark gray and black lines that follow the way his arms ripple as he pours us both a glass of deep red liquid.
"You expect me to drink something you brought?"
His smile grows, "That's why I didn't open it before you got home. It's 100% sealed and safe. I have no need— or desire— for you to be incapacitated. Not tonight, anyway."
"Whatare you doing here?" My voice grows irritated.
Sipping his own glass casually, he leans his hip against my counter, all long limbs and casual arrogance, pushing mine towards me silently.
"Okay, forget it," I scoff, "I'm calling the police."
As I pull my phone up to do just that, he moves with the speed and strength of a jungle cat, wrapping his long fingers around my hand and phone, pinning them to the counter beside me, using hisother hand to wrap around my waist, holding me captive against his warm, hard body.
He tsks, "Come on, Brigit. There's no way you thought I'd let you do that."
"I—" all rational thought ceases from how close he's pressed to me, crowding me into my counter with his hand firmly in place on mine. My gaze drifts up, catching on his lips for just a beat longer than appropriate before continuing up to his eyes.
They glitter, the honeyed amber warm with something akin to hunger, but far, far more dangerous.
"I don't understand what you want from me," I admit, releasing my phone and hoping he'll release me in turn.
His gaze burns with hunger as it licks down my face, lower still, his expression hot enough to melt the last of my resolve if I had any to begin with, before it finds its way back up to my mouth.
"We have a problem, my little bunny,” his voice rumbles over the syllables, his chest pressing against mine.
There’s absolutely no reason for his calling me that should be eliciting this reaction.
It’s demeaning.
It’s degrading.
It’sintimate.
But him saying it in that gritty tone somehow feels like a compliment, like one of my biggest insecurities is something to hunger over.
Taking my phone and slipping it into his pocket, he returns his hand to my side on the counter, close enough that his thumb drifts across the sliver of bare flesh between my blouse and dress pants, teasing me with practiced ease.
I swallow, fighting back the desire to moan.
Jesus Christ, get it together. It's a single touch against your hip.
But the relentless circles make my head spin to the rhythm of his touch, leaving me unable to say anything besides, "Problem?"
All too pleased with himself, he nods, "Mhmm."
"Wha- what problem?"
"You lied to me last time I was here," he mutters, his eyes flicking down to his teasing finger.Fuck.I knew he caught my slip-up.“You said you recognized me from the news."
My eyes blink rapidly, trying to clear away the fog from his touch and that fucking scent that surrounds us and turns me into little more than a wanton teen discovering hormones for the first time.
Shaking my head, I finally pull myself together enough to slide out of his grip.
