Page 51 of Wicked Heat

I smirk. “That’s either the worst pick-up line ever or genuinely creepy.”

“I was going for seductive.”

“Missed it by a mile,” I tease though my laugh dies in my throat when I see the heat in his eyes.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just holds my gaze. Then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile and he nods toward the bedroom. “I need to pack.”

“Oh,” I say, then follow him like a puppy as he moves into that room. I hesitate at the threshold, my attention drawn to the huge, familiar bed. I shift, forcing myself to seem as blasé as Ash, who’s pulled a duffel from the closet and is now filling it with clothes from the closet and dresser.

I clear my throat, and he tosses a handful of briefs into the bag and holds my gaze. My cheeks are on fire as I clear my throat again. “Um, listen,” I finally say, turning my attention to my feet. “This thing I wanted to talk about. I need to ask you something.”

When I look up, he’s moved closer to me. “Ash.”

“Hmm?” He takes another step closer, bringing him fully into my personal space, so close I can smell the lingering hint of soap mixed with a scent that is pure male and completely compelling. “So tell me.What did you want to ask?”

I shake my head, suddenly unable to latch on to a single thought. “I can’t remember.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as his fingers brush my arm, bare in my sleeveless blouse. “Maybe it’s the same thing I want to ask you.”

“What’s that?” My words—little more than breath—are swallowed up by the sweetness of a soft kiss that ends far too soon.

“That,” he whispers. “And this.” He kisses me again, only there’s nothing sweet about this second round. This kiss is wild and hot and full of decadent promise. The kind of kiss that heats blood and melts off clothes. The kind of kiss that teases hearts and kills reason, and I lose myself in it. I kiss him back, relishing the taste of him. Craving even more.

This is the kind of kiss I miss. The kind I let play out in nighttime fantasies. The kind I dream of, then wake up in a cold sweat, crying silently into my pillow.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispers, pulling away all too soon.

I want to tell him that I do. That I want it desperately.

I want to beg him to touch me, but I can’t escape the fear. The worry that I won’t ever be strong enough to be intimate with a man again.

And the worry that Ash could be him. My blackmailer. Maybe even my kidnapper.

I don’t really believe that, but it’s a sticky sort of terror, like sludge that clings and won’t ever wash off. So thick and tenacious that it won’t allow that one key thought to take root in my mind: the possibility that Ash isn’t a man to fear at all.

In fact, maybe Ash is the knight who can keep those horrors at bay.

“Bree?” I see the concern in his eyes, but I scramble backward, until my back is pressed against the doorjamb. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was nice. More than nice. But I can’t. I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” His voice is as soothing as a warm bath. “Can I help? Just tell me what you need.”

A shiver cuts through me as time seems to stop, and his words hang in the air.

What you need.

It’s as if Fate has tossed me into this surreal moment and given me Ash as a gift. I don’t even think before I blurt out the words.

“I need three million dollars. And I need it in less than seventy-two hours.”

Immediately, he goes ramrod straight. He’s still standing between me and the bed, but he seems miles away, and a cold wave of fear crashes over me.

I try to read his face, but I can’t. I’m not surprised. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit reading articles about Ashton Stone. They all talk about what a brilliant businessman he is. About how he inherited his father’s skill in a boardroom. That he never gives anything away, and that his capacity to never show his cards clears a path for him to get everything he wants.

It’s all true. I know it because I can’t read a single thing on his face. All I can do is hope.

“Ash?”

“Why?”