Page 92 of Off the Grid

Wow. I hadn’t expected that.

Now if I can just bring myself to act on that—with both my friends . . . and with Riggs.

Baby steps.

“Hi. You’re sweaty.”

“It’s not sweat. It’s called sex appeal. And my offer still stands.” His grin turns lopsided as he shuts the door behind him and moves into the room.

I was hoping he had forgotten that whole offer bit. I haven’t, but I was hoping he had.

“No, it’s not,” I say and roll my eyes. “It’s called sweat.”

He shrugs. Smirks. “That’s what happens when you get your heart rate up. Exert yourself. You should try it sometime.”

“I should, huh?”

He looks up and down the length of my body, his eyes lighting with as much suggestion as his tone does. “Yep. There are all kinds of ways one can accomplish an increased heart rate.”

“There are?” I play coy when my body’s reaction says it knows exactly what he’s inferring.

“Oh, Camilla,” he murmurs, “there most definitely are.”

He reaches to the side of me, his body skimming mine as he does. “What are you doing?” I demand.

I freeze.

My nerve endings are ablaze at his touch.

His face is inches from mine. His lopsided smirk front and center. “Grabbing a bottle of water.”

“Oh. Okay.” I go to jump out of the way only to realize the table is at my back and he’s at my front. I turn to see where he’s looking only to bump into him again. “Wait. That’s my wa . . . ter,” I say as he upends the bottle and gulps the entirety of it.

His arm is up so his bicep is there—in my face. His chest is at eye level, the striations in the muscles clear as day. And then there’s the small amount of water that falls from his mouth and slides in a rivulet down his neck and then drops to the floor below.

Kiss him.

Grab him and kiss him, Camilla.

My angel and devil war with my libido shoving both aside and telling me I better act or it’s going to riot.

“Riggs.” His name is breathy. Strained.

He takes his time setting the empty bottle down and then looking at me with a quirked brow and a ghost of a smile. “Is there something you wanted?” he murmurs.

You.

One hundred percent you.

I gulp as my heart beats a punishing staccato in my chest that I swear he can hear.

“Yes,” I croak, my fingers itching to touch and my lips desperate to feel his again.

“Speak up,” he says moving even closer, his eyes locked on mine. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“This is getting ridiculous,” I whisper.

“What part? You wanting to kiss me or me wanting to do so much more with you?”