fucker,” Vincent muttered.
I laughed.
Every time Vincent went running by himself, he was gone longer and longer. Was he avoiding me, burning off the sexual tension, or both? I liked to watch him as he ran. I caught glimpses of his glorious body between trees as he did the circle around the lake, his muscles pumping in sync like a well-oiled machine. I looked forward to the moment he came back, smelling of sweat, heat radiating from him.
During the past few days, I’d done countless sketches of him running, trying to capture the power, the speed. He was breathtaking.
And he was changing me into a sex-crazed monster. Last night, I’d dreamed about him fucking me in the forest, up against a tree. He was hot and drenched with sweat from his run, and I licked the salt from his skin…
Cabin fever, all right. I was going mad with lust. Better than nightmares, to be sure.
So, when Vincent came back at ten in the morning, I had a water glass ready for him. Leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter, I handed it to him. He took it wordlessly, confused, lifted it to his lips, and drank.
His wet T-shirt clung to his chest, and the heavy scent of his sweat made my head spin. Without thinking, I raised my hand and ran my finger through the wetness on the side of his throat. He stilled, water glass in the air, and stared at me with his gray, dangerous eyes. His jaw tightened. Oh, yes. He wanted me, just as much as I wanted him.
Spellbound, I leaned closer and licked the base of his throat, tasting the salt. I moaned softly.
Suddenly, he was gone. The bathroom door banged shut somewhere behind my back.
I wanted him badly—it made me ache with a constant need I’d never experienced before. I felt alive with it, though. Maybe I’d never manage to seduce him. However, even the feeling of wanting him felt like a gift—the only bright spot in my existence for months.
His mouth
Vincent
The setup for Michael’s protection was top notch. I had my best people watching the wide perimeter, reporting to me without any of them having a clue who was here. The cabin itself with the panic room and the improvements to the security system was safe yet inconspicuous, the remote location perfect for this particular case.
The only weak link was me. For the first time in my career, I was failing, fully aware of all my mistakes, yet unable to crawl back up the slippery slope—because of Michael Bourgeon.
He wasn’t what I’d expected him to be. I could’ve handled the cocky brat and the obvious attempts to get into my pants. That would’ve been easy.
However, the things that got to me weren’t the ones he did intentionally. He liked to cook and put his headphones in his ears when he did. I stared at him as he flitted around the kitchen, his head subtly jerking to the rhythm, a soft smile on his lips. He created miracles from the boring supply of tins, frozen meat, and vegetables we had with us. The other day, when we’d come back from our run, he’d lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe at his forehead and then puffed out his cheeks, laughing self-deprecatingly and shaking his head. He’d complained I was a slave driver. The expression on his face right then had stuck with me. His features had shown joy, honest joy from simply running in the woods and bantering with old moody me.
Underneath the bratty armor, Michael was kind and brave. He struggled every day. I could see the fear and anxiety building, but instead of throwing a tantrum—which was what I would’ve expected from someone with his upbringing and reputation—Michael did the dishes or yoga or laundry, trying to keep himself occupied… I doubted he realized how brave he was. And that sketchbook! I was obsessed with that damned sketchbook. Michael could sit and draw for hours on end, unaware of me looking at him from time to time. The focused frown between his brows, his pursed lips, the way his tongue darted out… What the hell did he draw in that sketchbook?
Finally… the way he looked at me when I raised my voice at him—that hit me into my weakest spot. Whenever I told Michael what to do, I noticed the heat in his eyes as clearly as the sun in the sky. His obvious craving to be ordered around, to submit,