“Um. Sure. Sounds fun.”
Ash crumpled his bottle and stood. “I’m going back to my room.”
Con eyed him. “You’re joining us in the casino.”
Ash let out a low laugh. “Is that an order?”
“It’s a team-building exercise.”
Ash didn’t speak. After a long beat, he gave Con a slight nod. When the room completely cleared, and everyone had headed to the casino, she found herself alone with Ash.
She met his dark stare. “Why don’t you want to go to the casino with the others?”
He lifted one thick shoulder and let it drop. “Not really my thing.”
Picking up on the strain running through him, she remembered how he’d guided her safely down from her panic attack. He didn’t look like he was about to fall apart over a team-building exercise, but he looked far from happy to join his team.
“Hey.” She wiped her fingers on a napkin and touched his arm. His stare snapped to hers. “Three things, right? Three things you can see.”
His eyes darkened, hooded now, heat sliding through them in a way that made her pulse stumble. “Fridge. Stove.” His gaze dragged slowly down her body and back up. “You.”
Her stomach clenched so tight she nearly lost her breath. When she spoke again, her voice came out softer than she intended. “Three things you can touch.”
“The counter.” His hand flattened against it, knuckles white. “The water bottle.”
She stepped into his space before she could talk herself out of it, the gap between them closing. “Me,” she rasped, already tipping her face up. “Touch me.”
He didn’t hesitate.
He clamped his hands on her waist, firm and possessive, pulling her flush against him as his mouth crashed down on hers. Heat built into an instant inferno as their restraint snapped at the same time.
His teeth grazed her lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming, stealing her breath, leaving no room for doubt that this attraction between them was even more dangerous than she wanted to believe.
A small sound slipped from her throat as she fisted his shirt, the world narrowing to the heat and strength of him.
The solid body that had shielded her. The steady hands that had guided her down when panic stole her breath.
And the way Angelo Ash’s hard mouth on hers made her knees threaten to give out entirely.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath rough as though his control hung by a thread.
“Still good?” he murmured.
Her fingers held tighter in his shirt.
“Better,” she whispered.
And then she kissed him again—slow this time, deliberate—like she had every intention of undoing him right there in front of the fridge and the stove and everything he thought he had under control.
This wasn’t in her job description.
Neither was Angelo Ash.
SIX
Ash had operated in war rooms carved out of embassy basements and concrete bunkers half a world away. He’d planned raids while mortars shook dust from ceilings. He’d built strike maps on folding tables slick with humidity while adrenaline pulsed through his system.
None of those rooms had ever unsettled him.
