Page 37 of Dirty Game

It’s a stupid gesture. A human one.

She blinks at the touch, and I realize I’m shaking as badly as she is.

“You protected what’s mine,” I say. The words come out harder than I mean them to.

She looks at her hands, flexes them, then—voice so thin it almost breaks—“I am what’s yours.”

It takes a second for her to realize what she’s said.

The horror on her face is almost comical. I want to laugh, but I can’t.

She tries to back away.

I catch her face in my hands, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.

I hold her there, not tight, just enough to remind her she’s real and I’m real and this moment is happening.

“Yes,” I say, “You are.”

I lean in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

She doesn’t move a muscle.

Our lips meet, barely—more a question than a kiss.

Her breath hitches, and for a moment I can feel her pulse through her mouth, fast and terrified and alive.

When I pull back, her eyes are huge.

She looks at me like she’s waiting for the punchline or the axe.

I let go of her and step away. My hands are steadier now.

She stands there, alone in the middle of the tiled floor, and I know I can’t touch her again… not yet.

Not unless I want to break everything between us.

Because the truth is, once I have her, I will never let her go.

I watch her as she leaves the room, the imprint of her mouth still burning on mine.

Next time, I don’t know if I’ll be able to restrain myself.

If the rest of her tastes as good as her mouth does, I’m a doomed fucking man.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rosalynn

I can't stop touching my lips.

It's been three days since he kissed me—barely kissed me, really.

Just the softest brush of his mouth against mine, so gentle I might have imagined it if not for the way my whole body had lit up like struck lightning.

Three days, and I've become someone I don't recognize.

Someone who traces her bottom lip during meetings.