Page 19

He smelled dark and masculine. He’d ditched the button-down from last night, trading it for a black Henley. The fabric clung to his torso, outlining every sculpted line, every muscle, making it impossible not to look. Not to imagine what he’d feel like pressed against me, what that body could do if he wasn’t just toying with me but taking.
And those jeans—dark-washed, low on his hips, worn just enough to hint at the kind of man who knew how to move. Knew how to handle himself. Knew how to handle a woman.
Heat moved deep in my belly, unwanted but undeniable. My pulse kicked up, breath hitching slightly before I forced it even. I hated him. I wanted to shove him back. But my body? My body was a traitor.
His body pressed in just enough to trap me between the bar and him. One arm braced on the counter, the other landing lightly against my hip, barely touching—just enough contact to remind me he could hold me there if he wanted to.
Heat spiked in my blood. Not just from irritation.
“Walk with me.” His voice was low, smooth.
“I haven’t ordered a drink yet,” I tried.
He shrugged, and even that was somehow sexy.
I should have hesitated. Should have told him to fuck right off.
I didn’t.
I slid off the stool, moving past him—but he caught me by the elbow, guiding me toward the exit. The touch was brief, but deliberate.
Possessive.
I stopped just beyond the threshold, yanking my arm free. “You always grab women like that, or is it just me?”
Marcus smirked. “Depends. You always let men you hate touch you like that?”
God, I wanted to wipe that grin right off his face.
Before I could fire back, his hand moved to my hip again, fingertips pressing enough to make me feel the heat of him through my jeans. He leaned in, his breath ghosting against my cheek, his voice dropping to something dark and edged with challenge.
“Or would you rather I kiss you instead?”
My stomach clenched, heat licking up my spine. It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was a warning. A threat wrapped in temptation, because we both knew if I so much as faltered—if my breath caught, if my eyes flicked to his mouth—he’d do it.
I wasn’t sure I’d stop him.
Gathering all the strength I could muster, I folded my arms, tilting my head. “What do you want, Dane?”
His gaze flicked down my body, slow and assessing.
The worst part?
I liked the way he looked at me.
Marcus took a step closer, invading my space all over again.
“I hear you’ve been making friends,” he murmured.
“Who, Norton?” I shrugged. “He approached me.”
His smirk deepened.
Asshole.
I hated him. I hated him.
And yet my body was reacting like I wanted him to press me back against the bricks, to tilt my chin up and drag his teeth along my jaw just to see how fast I’d come undone.