Page 8 of Liar

He snorts, interrupting me.

“Or to humor you,” I add.

Laughter fills the space. It’s brief, unexpected, and transforms his handsome features into something so stunning I could spend days mooning over, if I were a girl who obsesses over men.

I’ve never been that girl, though the butterflies in my stomach tell me what my mind already knows—one smile and this man could turn a logical thinker into the most besotted of birdbrains.

I raise my chin.

He quietly studies me, like I’m an unexpected puzzle that’s landed in his lap.

“I’m not some puta looking to make a quick peso. Will you help me or not?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Never mind that.”

I gasp as he grabs hold of my hand and tugs me into the bathroom. “Sit,” he orders, pointing to the toilet seat. “I’ll listen to what you have to say while we take care of that bullet wound.”

He vanishes into another room, clearly expecting me to listen. With a sigh, I settle down onto the closed toilet lid. A few moments pass before he returns, wearing faded blue jeans and a tight, black T-shirt, looking incredibly hot.

And young.

“How old are you?” I ask without thinking. He must be a cartel recruit. Someone the Bastard doesn’t want out on the streets while the Lobos kill their enemies and drive whomever’s left out of Loreto.

“Twenty-four. How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen,” he mutters. “You seem older.” He retrieves an emergency kit from beneath the sink and sets it on the counter. I catch him stealing a peek at me in the mirror, like he still can’t believe what he sees.

I roll my eyes. “You mean I’ve got a woman’s body.”

He doesn’t respond as he moistens a cotton ball with antiseptic then comes over to stand before me, clasping my hand into his own. His grip is firm.Everything about him is firm.His touch has my heart dancing a tango inside my chest.

“This will sting,” he warns, and without hesitation, places the soaked cotton over my wound.

I squeeze his hand and curse a wild streak inside my head.

“Brave girl.”

His compliment helps me relax enough that I sit quietly while he finishes cleaning my wound and fixes gauze and first aid tape over my skin.

“Contacts,” I murmur. “Are your eyes green?”

His brows lift. My question has caught him off guard. Seconds pass without him responding and I suddenly feel uncomfortable. Not in an awkward way, per se, more because of the sizzle of awareness between us. I’ve plenty of experience noticing when a man is attracted to me yet no experience whatsoever being attractedtoa man, stranger or otherwise. As if reading my thoughts, he raises the same hand that held my own, reaches out and touches me, placing his thumb on my bottom lip and gently pressing inward. Like he wants to leave a thumbprint on me. Like he wants to mark me as his.

It’ll be the second time tonight he’s claimed me.

Do I want him to?

I resist the urge to turn my face into his touch.

“Well?” I prompt him to answer me.

“Yes.” He grunts, but then holds his thumb up for inspection. “And your lips are naturally pink, luscious, and full—as is the rest of you.”

His words cause my heart to pound. He’s sex on legs and a few steps ahead of me in the seduction department. Okay, leaps and bounds ahead of me. He’s far out of my tiny realm of limited experience.