I set the tape measure down on the porch railing and descend the steps, stalking toward her with a predator’s focus. I close the distance before she can take two steps, looming over her until she’s forced back against the heavy steel grille of the F-250. I trap her there, my massive frame cutting off her light and her escape.
I look down at the cup in her hand, my shadow swallowing her whole. "You remembered."
She swallows hard, the paper cup trembling in her grip. "What?"
"You remember exactly how I take it—black and bitter—even after all these years."
Her gaze darts toward the tree line, her chest heaving under that knit wool as she tries to find air I’m not already breathing. I can smell her arousal now, a concentrated wash of musk and lavender that makes my pulse jump and heat the pull of desire against my denim.
"It’s just coffee, Austin. Don't read into it."
"I read into everything." I lean in until my chest brushes the swell of her tits, my voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. I take the coffee from her hand, my calloused fingers dragging slowly across hers to ensure she feels the heat of my skin.
Her skin is warm. Soft. Mine is rough, calloused, stained with dirt and work. The contrast makes my blood pound.
Courtney shivers and retreats, trying to outrun the tension by backing up the porch steps, but I’m on her in a heartbeat.
I trap her against the doorframe, my massive frame cutting off the morning light and her only exit. She stands there, caged between the rotting wood and my body. I take a sip, never taking my eyes off her. "Sleep well?"
"No," she says sharply. "I slept in a house that makes noises like it’s dying, on a mattress that smells like mothballs, knowing there’s an arrogant biker lurking in the woods."
"I didn't lurk in the woods. I lay in my bed. Thinking about you in yours."
Air catches in her throat. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the hazel of her irises. "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Stop... doing that. Flirting. Threatening. Whatever this aggressive alpha routine is."
She tries to shrink away, but there is nowhere to go with her spine already pressed flat against the doorframe.
"I am here to sell this house, Austin. James—my attorney—says the market is hot. I just need to patch it up and get it listed. Then I’m gone. Back to Chicago."
"Chicago." I say the word like a curse. "Too many people. Too much concrete. You don't belong there."
"I have a life there! I have a career."
"You have a job," I correct her. "Or maybe you pretended to live someone else’s life."
Her eyes widen, flashing with indignation. "How dare you!"
"I’m just stating facts here, Court." I step closer, invading her personal space until I can smell the lavender on her shampoo and the warm, musky scent of her sleep-warm skin. "And after coming back here, to the life you left behind, I can see that the city had nothing to offer you, after all. Safety, maybe. Financial security. But here you are, no husband. No boyfriend, either."
I capture her left hand. My thumb sweeps over her ring finger. Her hand is small in mine. Delicate. I could crush it, but I hold it with a reverence that borders on worship.
"There isn't," she whispers, voice trembling.
"No," I agree, my voice dropping to a low, rough timbre. "Which means you’re fair game."
"I am not game, Austin. I’m not one of your club girls."
"You're right. You're not." I release her hand and slam my palm flat against the rotting wood of the doorframe right beside her ear, leaning down until she’s trapped between the house and my heat. "Club girls are for a night—easy, disposable holes to scratch an itch. You? You’re the infection in my blood, Courtney. The fever that’s been burning through my veins for ten long years, and I’m done trying to sweat you out."
She stares up at me, lips parted. I can see the pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat. She’s scared, but standing her ground. That’s the key. She’s not running.
"I have to work," she says weakly, trying to salvage her resolve. "I have... I have to clean the parlor. The wallpaper is peeling."
"Good. I'll help."
