Page 60 of Only for Him

This time, my hand doesn’t bother reaching for my gun.

It won’t matter.

If last night proved anything, it’s that.

Every step leaves my body thrumming with the memory. The cool kiss of air as the towel fell away from me. The scratch of his shirt against my tight nipples. Cold steel and bitter oil on my tongue. Hot hard muscles between my legs.

And the way his hand fit perfectly around my throat.

Like it’s made for me. Likehe’smade for me.

And maybe he is. Maybe the two of us are built for each other and we didn’t know that until now.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

But which one am I? Which one is he?

I hate the tremor rushing through my pulse with every step. I hate the way my thighs clench as I step closer and closer to him. I hate that my body is practically begging for a repeat.

Shame and desire lash me from within, and I find myself starting to crave the sting of both.

Light flickers on with each step, and when I finally step close enough to touch, his face is finally forced out of the shadows and into the light.

The sight of him still hits like a brick to the chest.

Up close and in the light, I greedily drink in every feature of his face like I can’t get enough.

Everything from the tiny scar above his brow to the razor-sharp edges of his cheekbones. His blond hair is neat and slicked. There's dark stubble on his hard-set jaw that wasn't there last night when he made me submit to my own dark cravings. I wonder if he also stayed up all night reliving every moment of what took place between us.

He doesn’t smile, and I’m glad he doesn’t. Because I’m not sure if I can restrain myself if he does.

It’s easy to forget just how handsome he really is. I want to hate him and his perfect face, but I’m slowly memorizing it instead.

It’s a face made for admiring.

Just like his voice is made for obeying.

He takes up the space between the rows like he owns it, calm and still. The sheer size of him makes everything feel tight, claustrophobic.

Intimate, even.

He doesn’t move even as I step closer until the light is perfectly framed above his head. Until I’m craning my neck up to look at him—a dark angel of vengeance who’s been waiting for me since the building was built.

Finally, his mouth curves into a shadow of a smile. As familiar now as the memories of his fingers around my neck and the dreams I will never dig him out of.

His eyes are the same glacial blue, but today they’re bright, almost cheerful.

Is it because he knows what he’s doing to me?

Because now he knows what I sound like when I come?

We stand there. Two points in a circuit. Air buzzing between us.

Finally, I find my voice.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, little viper.” He tilts his head, amused.