Page 18 of Forbidden Confessions, Volume 2 (The Forbidden Volumes #1)

T he only man I’ve ever wanted is asking me if I’d like to spend the night at his place? If we’d be naked and doing the mattress tango, I’d love that. But Rush is just being a nice guy. A concerned co-worker. I need to stop wishing for more.

That’s not easy. I still get the same butterflies and flushes of heat I got years ago when I was the forgettable gawky girl who shocked him with an out-of-the-blue kiss. But I guess I’m still forgettable if all he wants to do to me is babysit.

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t leave. I’ve only had Kitty Pie for a few days, and she’s proven she’s a destructive force, especially at night if she gets too bored. I have to stay here.”

He levels me with a skeptical glance. “Will you really be able to sleep by yourself tonight?”

No. Whoever’s been in my house obviously knows how to bypass my locks and my security system. Knowing that, how much could I possibly sleep? Sure, I have a gun and I’m decent in target practice…but the idea of actually using it on a real human gives me pause.

“I don’t know.” I look away.

Rush tips my chin up until I’m looking at him. “What if I stayed here with you?”

I have no place for a man Rush’s size to sleep. The lone spare bedroom I turned into an office for homework, and my couch is more like a love seat. But he’s searched the place, so he knows that. Just like he knows I’ve got a roomy queen-size bed…

But he’s not interested in sharing it with me.

“Maybe I could make you dinner to thank you for your help, and afterward we can see if that makes sense, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

How about you hold me down, kiss me breathless, and take my V-card?

Instead, I smile. “I appreciate it. It’s nearly eight o’clock. What sounds good for dinner?”

“Whatever you feel like making. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me.”

Seriously? He doesn’t have dates every night of the week?

He probably does. They’re just too busy to eat. Duh.

“You look like one of those super-healthy types who only eats tofu and vegetables. I was going to make fried chicken and mashed potatoes with biscuits?—”

“If you do, I’ll love you forever.”

I laugh. Big, bad Rush has a sense of humor? “Southern cooking it is. Beer?”

He raises a brow at me. “You drink it?”

“No. I keep a few bottles in case my neighbor comes over on weekends to watch some sporting event only my satellite provider gets.”

Rush saunters into the kitchen. “Lucky guy.”

“No, Mrs. Crafton is an eighty-year-old widow whose passions in life include college football, the Westminster Dog Show, Say Yes to the Dress , and beer.”

He laughs, a rich, wonderful sound dripping with baritone and testosterone. “She sounds like a character.”

Now, just like the first time I laid eyes on him, he makes my everything flutter. I turn to the refrigerator and pull out the package of chicken. I won’t have leftovers, but I’ll have Rush at my table. That’s way better.

Cool your jets. Otherwise, he’ll figure out he makes you gaga .

Good advice. I should listen…except when I turn to him, I’m struck by how gorgeous he is and find myself staring.

“Need help?” He’s obviously suppressing a smile. Clearly, I don’t have to give away my feelings before making an idiot out of myself. I’m already doing it.

“I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“How about I pour some wine?” He eyes the bottles of merlot in the rack beside my kitchen cabinet.

“You drink it?”

“I’ll drink about anything.”

Normally I don’t imbibe around a guy I don’t know well. I’m a lightweight. But it’s been a hell of a day, and being around Rush makes me more nervous than usual. “Then wine would be great.”

He uncorks the bottle while I clean the chicken and heat the frying pan. I’m breading the pieces when he bends and holds the glass to my lips. “Since your hands are occupied…”

I wrap my lips around the rim of the glass and close my eyes as the wine spills onto my tongue, tart and fruity. It’s so intimate to be drinking from his hand, but he’s steady and patient, making sure I get a nice long swallow before taking my cue and setting the stem aside.

“Thanks.” I lick my lips and notice his stare following the motion. Nerves kick my stomach. My tongue suddenly feels tied, but I try not to seem googly-eyed. “So…when you first got here, you said you wanted to talk about something?”

He shrugs. “It’s not important now. Tell me about you?”

Um…I went to prom with your younger brother, Ridge.

Yeah, probably not the best place to start.

“Well, I’m an only child. My mom died when I was two, so I don’t really remember her.

My dad mostly raised me, with a lot of help from his sister, who now lives in Ohio.

” I’m skipping the whole high-school experience since reminders might bring back that night I can’t forget.

“I started working at the hotel about two years ago. I’m going to night school and I read a lot. Boring, huh?”

“Not at all. Sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks.” Mentions of her always make me a little melancholy. “Dad has always said I’m a lot like her.”

“You like your job?”

“Sure. You?”

“It’s definitely different than leading covert missions in enemy territory and hauling ass to tight extractions after completing the objective.”

“Iraq?”

“And Afghanistan. Both hellholes.”

And he doesn’t want to talk about it. I get that. “But you like the job?”

He bobs his head, his dark eyes dancing under the kitchen lights. “Still getting used to it.”

“Adrenaline junkie?” I’m guessing yes, just like I’m guessing he misses the action.

“Guilty. I’m settling for skydiving and motorcycle racing instead.”

Settling? “That sounds terrifying.”

“Nah,” he assures as I set the breaded chicken in the hot pan. Silence, broken only by the popping grease, sizzles. “So what do you read?”

Romances where hunky guys like you tie me to the bed and have their wicked way with me until I nearly pass out from orgasm overload . “Fiction.”

“Yeah?” He looks amused, like he knows the truth.

That’s not possible…right?

Stop being paranoid. Focus.

I nod and smile, pretending that my frying chicken requires great focus, but I feel my cheeks heating up.

Suddenly, he sidles up behind me. His woodsy scent fills my nose. He settles his hands on my hips, and he’s like a blast furnace behind me, pumping out heat.

I tremble…just like the night we met.

“You never got to change into dry clothes. I can watch the chicken if you want to do that now.”

I venture a glance over my shoulder. His face is right there—full lips, hard jaw, dark five-o’clock shadow.

I’m swooning. Literally heart pounding, breathless, and unsteady on my feet.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Need me to do anything else?”

“Can you peel some potatoes, too?” I retrieve the peeler from the drawer and the potatoes from the pantry.

He smiles and gives me an inch of space—but not much more—before he lets me go with a squeeze. “You got it.”

I give him a nervous smile, then I head toward my bedroom, taking my phone with me.

When I reach the back of the house, I ignore everything the intruder touched and find a clean pair of denim cutoffs and a T-shirt that says Friday is my second favorite F-word .

A quick glance at the mirror above my dresser tells me my mascara smudged in the rain and my hair is a mess.

After wiping away the former and tousling the latter, I head back to the kitchen.

It’s a normal Friday night…but it’s not. Someone broke into my house to take nothing. So Rush Garrison is in my kitchen, offering to protect me all night long. Both are surreal, and I’m having a tough time deciding which is more unbelievable.

Back under the bright lights, I see he’s already peeled and cubed a small pile of potatoes. “Thanks. But wow, I’ll have leftovers for days.”

“Clearly, you’ve never tried to feed me before.” He grins before he cuts his gaze in my direction.

Suddenly, his smile fades. He swallows. His stare rakes me, lingering on my snug T-shirt, then my legs.

New goose bumps erupt across my skin. I feel my nipples turn erect again, my womb actually clenching just from the way he looks at me.

“Come here,” he murmurs, setting the knife aside.

Biting my lip, I comply. His deep voice compels me to. In fact, it was the first thing to draw me to him way back when. “What?”

Rush pulls me closer, smiling when I settle my hands on his solid chest. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

If he keeps touching me, no. This doesn’t feel like a protector soothing a girl. This feels like a man wanting to be close to a woman.

It’s official; I’ve gone crazy.

“Sure.” I smile. “I’m not hurt. He didn’t take anything. My house is still standing…and you’re making me feel safer.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He looks into my eyes, and I can feel his hot stare driving straight through my trembling heart and knotting stomach, all the way to my soul.

But he already owns me. He just doesn’t know it.

I swallow. “I should…um, cook these potatoes and start some biscuits.”

Rush releases me slowly. Reluctantly? “What can I do to help?”

Take me to bed until I’m a shaking, sated, sore pile of bliss . But that’s not what he means, and I have a feeling if I don’t give him something to focus on, I’ll be so rattled that I’ll burn dinner. “Set the table? Plates are in the cabinet.” I point. “Silverware in the drawer below it.”

He nods and gets busy. I notice then he’s already boiled water for the potatoes, so I dump them in, check the chicken, and start the biscuits while sipping my wine.

It doesn’t take Rush long to finish his task, and I’m more than a little surprised when Kitty Pie slinks his way and proceeds to sniff him.

Rush lets her, kneeling to pet between her ears.

Minutes later, my skittish kitten, who spent her first three days here running away every time I did anything except feed her, is curled up in his arms, resting her dainty chin on his big shoulder and slumbering away.

“How did you do that?”

“Patience. She was curious but nervous, so I put myself in her space and let her come to me.”

Suddenly, I wonder if we’re actually talking about the cat.

“Well, it worked.” And I fear it’s working on me, too. Now that he’s here and offering to keep me safe, it’s all I can do not to slink closer and rub up against him.

“She’s sweet.”

“Do you like cats?” I ask as I flip the chicken.

“Never spent much time around them, but she seems like an adorable fluffball.”

We talk about Kitty Pie before conversation drifts to work. No, I missed the drunk man urinating in the elevator at last weekend’s wedding, but he’d totally heard that one of my co-workers had been fired for spending the night with a guest—and his wife.

Our laughter is still ringing around the room as I plate the chicken, which looks perfectly fried, and pull out the biscuits. He stops me with a single question.

“So…I hear Paul asked you out. You say yes?”