Page 16 of Hard to Handle

It doesn’t matter if someone did though because nothing would break his focus on me.

And I feel it all the way to the apex of my thighs.

Memories of him—his skill, his prowess, his finesse—own my mind, and I can’t divorce myself from them and the man standing before me.

No matter how much I tell myself I need to.

The urge to reach out and touch him is real, which I hate.

The door shuts.

“Not true,” I murmur.

“Ah, that’s where I think you’re lying, Dekker.” He closes the distance with another step. Our chests are all but touching as he braces himself, placing one hand on the wall beside my head. “Your lips and eyes aren’t matching up there. Sure, you’re telling me you don’t think of me, but your eyes”—he emits a guttural hum in the back of his throat—“they’re telling me you can’t stop thinking about me . . . because as you know, I’m the triple threat.”

“Triple threat?”

“All stick, all finesse . . . all stamina.”

I roll my eyes at his macho, chest thumping. “See? That’s why whatever it was between us never worked—”

“You mean sleeping together?” he asks.

“Yes. That.”

“Can you not say it? Can you not say ‘having sex with you,’ because that’s what we did.” He leans in so his lips are near my ear, so one hand can trail a finger down the line of my jaw, and whispers, “We had a lot of sex. Incredible sex. Mind-blowing sex. Incomparable sex.”

“Sex is sex,” I lie as my nipples harden at the thought of us together, the palpability of our attraction still volatile in nature even all these years later.

“Not ours.”

I lift a lone eyebrow to meet the dare in his eyes and know it’s a mistake.

“Then I’ll remind you.”

His lips are on mine before I can process his words, a torrent of desire owning my thoughts—and my body.

Good sense tells me I should resist him, but the heat of his body and warmth of his tongue fires everything inside me that dear ole Chad never could.

Funny how I never noticed it until now.

Hunter’s hands don’t touch me, but stay positioned on either side of my head. His body doesn’t meet mine, but brushes ever so subtly.

But his lips own mine. How they move, how they possess, how they control.

And as much as I want to say I’m helpless to the onslaught of desire they bring me, I also want to own every damn sensation they summon within me. The chills chasing, the adrenaline coursing, the ache simmering, and the desire mounting.

There’s comfort in the familiarity and a thrill of newness simultaneously.

Need wars against want as he launches an all-out assault on my senses with his mouth.

The man can kiss.

How did I forget how devastating his lips were when they connected with mine?

“Dekker,” he murmurs. The strain in his voice mirrors how I feel—flustered and aroused, dashed with a mix of regret.

I lose track of my senses, of my resolve, and with lust leading my thoughts and the memory of him urging it along, my hands are on him. His chest. The back of his neck. His ass.