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“In my house.”

“Hostages get fed.”

“You're not a hostage.”

“Then take the handcuffs off.”

“No.”

“See? Hostage.”

His jaw clenches.

I smile.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then slowly moves lower.

My pulse jumps.

He stands three feet away, wearing only a towel.

I'm sitting on his kitchen floor, handcuffed to his refrigerator with stolen cheese in my hand.

This should not be sexy.

And yet.

“You're staring,” I whisper.

“So are you.”

His mouth twitches.

My eyes drop.

“Eyes up.”

I look at him. “That towel is fucking distracting.”

Roman goes completely still.

For one second, nothing happens.

Then he laughs. A real one.

Low. Rough. Beautiful.

My heart squeezes.

“There it is.”

His laughter disappears, but the amusement doesn't completely leave his eyes.

“What?”

“Your laugh.”

He watches me.