“Because sometimes, shit is different. Like it or not.”
“That’s—”
“See that?” he asked, nodding behind me, making me turn to look.
“The prison? Hard to miss.”
“Yesterday, a rapist was released. I know some people think reforms are possible. But I don’t think there’s any fixing that kind of sick. So, he’s out here somewhere, likely looking for his next target. I’d prefer it if you weren’t in his sights. If that means you’re pissed at me for treating you differently from a man, so be it. I’m not having that shit on my conscience.”
“I can take care of myself.”
I was quick.
I was lightning-fast when trying to prove a point.
One second, we were just standing there.
The next, my gun was unholstered, in my hand, and pointed at him.
Unfortunately for me, Colter was faster.
In a move so quick his body blurred around the edges, he had my wrist in his hand, then me whipped around, my back to his chest, my arm crossing my body.
And he was holding tight.
Sugar let out a little whimper, confused by the change.
“And that would probably be enough to fend off someone without training,” he said. His breath was warm on the shell of my ear, making a strange shiver move through my stomach. “But I’m not taking that chance.”
I would take it with me to my grave, but the press of his body, the firm, yet gentle way he was holding onto me to prove his point had my heartbeat thrumming and my sex clenching hard.
It was just biological, I tried to remind myself. It was just the reaction to the nearness of a good-looking man after a long, long dry spell. Just that primal, evolutionary tug to mate. Nothing more, nothing less.
“You can let me go now.”
I prayed he didn’t hear the thickness in my voice, that he couldn’t feel the way my heartbeat was kicking, or how my breath had gone all quick and shallow.
Want stirred slowly, a lazy curl beneath my skin, making me suddenly aware of each inch where our bodies that touched: the spread of his chest, his firm center, the corded muscles of his arms.
I’d never been one of those petite, small-boned women, so I never felt small before. But I did right then, with this giant of a man dwarfing me in height and width.
And, God, as much as I hated to admit it, I liked it.
A lot.
His hand slid. My breath stuttered.
The next thing I knew, he was pulling the gun from my fingers, his knuckles dragging down over my breast, then across my stomach, down my side.
Each second stretched tight, the air humming with possibility.
I didn’t even know his intention until I felt the gun slide back into the holster at my waist.
“Haven’t had a woman pull a gun on me like that before,” he said, his hand grazing my hip. He might as well have lit it on fire. And the flames were catching, spreading, burning inward.
“Never had a man disarm me before,” I admitted, suddenly not caring how breathless my voice sounded.
“I’ve had a lot of training,” he said, his face brushing the side of my head.
