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He narrows his eyes and sniffs. “Why do you smell like piss?”

I groan. “I went to visit Coco.”

“Is that a code for something?” Cal groans from behind me.

Corm doesn’t move, and for some outlandish reason, I don’t move either. I should. I definitely should.

It’s like his body has magnetic properties, and we’re both charged to attract. I can’t move. We stare at each other for several beats, the air between us filled with something carnal and frustrating.

With every breath my nipples brush his chest, and those traitors remember him.

“Do you mind?” I finally grit out.

“Let me walk you out, darling.” He gives me the most dazzling fake smile.

“I can find my way.”

“I insist.” He steps to the side and takes my hand. He fucking takes my hand.

“Are you worried I’ll run?” I spit, trying to reconcile the cocktail of feelings that range from how-normal-it-is-to-hold-hands to don’t-fucking-touch-me.

His touch is electrifying, setting tiny but potent explosions in my stomach, my chest, my core. Everywhere. His hand burns mine.

“I’m pretty sure you would. Why are you leaving already?” He raises my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.

I look around, bewildered. The few people working in the glass-walled offices don’t seem to notice us, so what’s with the performance? And again, my body remembers his lips. His hands. Him.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Didn’t you come to yell at me?” He stops, forcing me to look at him. His thumb moves up and down my hand.

I hate how he thinks he can play my body like a violin. It doesn’t matter if he can. He totally can, but that doesn’t give him the right to toy with me like this.

The source of my confusion lies elsewhere though. His gentle stroke of my hand isn’t sexual. It’s not the touch of a hungry man. Or a man who wants to declare his claim.

It’s just a mindless touch, familiar, comfortable. Does he even know he’s doing it?

I snatch my hand away from him. “Elopement was the brilliant Betsy’s idea of how to shut me up?”

He shrugs and calls the elevator. “You wanted a fast wedding.”

I glance at the receptionist and grit out quietly, “But we’re not married. I need the marriage certificate.”

“Yes, you do.” He smirks.

He leans down, snakes his arm around my waist, and lowers his lips to my ear.

The man has done this on multiple occasions, and my body revels in it like it’s the first time. Jesus.

“As soon as I can be sure you’ll deliver on your side of the bargain, we’ll elope for real.” He drags his cheek against mine, inhaling and probably consuming all the oxygen because I can’t draw air into my lungs.

Taking advantage of my hesitation, he captures my lips. Taking no prisoners, his tongue dives in. I part for him, hungrily joining in the dance.

For a beat.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I jerk my head back. I would step away, but he holds me in a vise-like hold.

“Fuck you.” I glare at him.