I gasp, spinning around in his arms. Mistake. Now I’m facing him, my hips pressed against his thighs, my chest heaving inches from his. His eyes are dilated, swallowing the iris.
"I am not looking at you like that," I lie.
"Liar," he grins, a predatory showing of teeth. "Your pulse is jumping in your neck. I can see it. I can smell you, Courtney. You smell like sweet heat and nervous sweat. My favorite cocktail."
He shifts his weight, and I feel the hardness of him against my belly. My mouth goes dry. He’s huge. Everywhere.
"Austin," I breathe, a warning and a plea.
He drops the paint cans to the floor with a heavy thud, freeing his hands. One of them comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing my lower lip. His skin is rough, calloused from working on bikes and God knows what else. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
"Tell me to stop," he dares me. "Tell me you don't want me to kiss you until you forget your own name."
I stare at his mouth. I remember that mouth. I remember the first time we kissed, clumsy and shy under the bleachers sophomore year. This isn't that boy. This is a man who knows exactly how to destroy me and rebuild me in his image.
I should tell him to stop. I should push him away and run back to my car.
"We're in public," I whisper weakly.
"I don't care," he growls. "Let them watch. Let them see who you belong to."
He doesn't give me time to argue. His hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head back, and he descends.
His mouth crashes onto mine, hot and demanding. It’s not a polite greeting; it’s a siege. His lips part mine with ease, his tongue sweeping inside to taste, to claim, to own. He tastes like bitter coffee and dark, dangerous trouble. I whimper, the sound swallowed by his growl, and my hands instinctively clutch his cut, gripping the leather to keep from sliding to the floor.
He pulls me flush against him, grinding his hips into mine, letting me feel the rigid length of him through the denim. I melt. My brain shuts off, leaving only the sensory overload ofhis scent, his heat, his taste. For a few glorious seconds, I am entirely his.
"Austin!"
Frank’s voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of ice water.
"If you're gonna harass the customers, you gotta buy something first."
Austin freezes. A low, frustrated growl vibrates in his chest, rumbling directly into my breasts. He pulls back mere inches, his forehead resting against mine. His breathing is ragged, matching my own.
"Saved by the bell," he mutters darkly. He pulls away, the loss of his heat leaving me instantly cold and bereft. He picks up the paint cans with effortless ease. "Put it on the account, Frank."
I stand there, trembling, clutching my fingers against my chest as if it can slow my pounding heart. My lips throb, swollen and sensitive. Austin walks to the counter, entirely unbothered, while I try to reassemble my shattered composure.
I grab my coffee from the counter.
He waits for me by the door, the paint cans in one hand, his coffee in the other.
"Car's out back?" he asks.
"Main street," I manage to croak.
"I'll carry these to your car. Then you're going straight home."
"You can't order me around."
He opens the door for me, the bells jingling their mockery. As I pass him, he leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my toes curl.
"I'm coming over tonight to check the wiring in the master bedroom," he says. "Be ready."
"Ready for what?" I challenge, trying to find my spine.
His eyes drop to my waist, then back to my eyes, burning with a dark, terrifying promise.
