That woodsy cologne, that undertone of heat that's purely him, and my body responds before my brain can catch up.
Heat blooms in my chest. Spreads through my stomach. Settles between my thighs with a throb I can't ignore no matter how hard I try.
I clench my jaw and hate every treacherous inch of my own skin.
"No." I hold my ground, even though every instinct is screaming at me to run. "You haven't won anything. You've trapped me. That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it?" Another step closer.
"You could’ve stayed away." His voice drops, soft and intimate, wrapping around me like silk. "You could’ve built a life anywhere in the world. But you came back."
"I came back for Gracie. For my family."
"You came back because you were tired of running fromthis." His hand lifts, and his fingertips graze my cheek so lightly it's barely a touch. I flinch like he's burned me. "From us."
"There is no us."
"Your body says otherwise." He takes another step, and now he's close enough that his heat bleeds into mine. "Your pulse isracing. Your skin is flushed. Your nipples are hard through your shirt." His eyes drop, then rise slowly back to mine. "And if I reached between your thighs right now, I'd find you dripping wet for me."
"You're disgusting."
"I'm honest." His gaze bores into mine, stripping away every defense I have. "Something you seem incapable of being. At least with yourself."
He reaches for me.
I slap his hand away hard enough to sting.
He reaches again.
I shove at his chest with both hands, putting every ounce of soldier strength behind it.
He doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Absorbs the blow like I'm nothing, like my fury means nothing, and something inside me—something that's been wound tight as a tripwire for eight years—finally snaps.
I hit him.
Closed fist, right in the center of his chest. He grunts but doesn't step back.
I hit him again. And again. Pounding against him with everything I have, eight years of fear and fury and shame pouring out of me with every blow.
Every night I lay awake wanting him.
Every time I touched myself and imagined his hands. Every shameful fantasy I've ever had about this man who has no right to occupy a single second of my thoughts.
He lets me.
He stands there and takes it, absorbing every strike, watching me with those pale eyes like he can see straight through to the broken, wanting thing underneath.
I hate him. I hate him. Ihatehim.
He catches my wrists.
One second I'm swinging, the next I'm pinned, my arms trapped against his chest, his fingers like iron around my wrists.
His heart pounds against my knuckles—fast, hard, not as calm as he pretends.
"Feel better?" His voice is rough. Scraped raw. His chest heaves against mine.
"Let go of me."
