decided to go another direction. He seemed fairly amenable to a physical relationship despite his hang-up over his ex. I simply had to seduce him. Or pretend to seduce him. Surely I could distract him long enough to incapacitate him.
I strode to the kitchen and stopped. He was on his back, halfway under the sink, his lean hips so inviting, his legs bent at the knees and slightly open.
Good and merciful Lord. The things He could do with a little clay and some spare time. And He’d done an exquisite job with this particular specimen. I could hardly look at Reyes anymore and not feel a sharp tug at my heartstrings.
He raised up, just barely, from underneath the sink. He stilled. Studied. I could feel curiosity radiate out of him. He let his gaze drop to my chest, but only for a moment.
“You’re still here,” I said, suddenly remembering what shirt I’d decided to wear. It was pretty much the only thing I had clean.
He rose to his feet, the movement effortless, a charming smile lighting his impossibly handsome face. “So are you.”
I moved to the side when he reached for a tool I was blocking. His heat enveloped me, and I bit down, tried to ignore my own heat gathering in places it had no right to gather, assembling unlawfully.
I decided to make myself useful and marry the ketchups, a term I found hilarious. “Why are you still here?” I asked when he turned to examine his handiwork. He wore a black T-shirt stretched taut to accommodate his wide shoulders, and jeans that fit snugly over his hips and the curvature of his sextastic ass. The bandages around his midsection left a soft line across his waist, and I wondered how badly he’d been hurt. I also wondered how he’d been hurt period.
“I’m still here because you are,” he said matter-of-factly.
Wonderful. Now I felt guilty. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That’s good, because no babysitter alive should have the thoughts I have about you.”
His admission stirred something deep inside me. I was pretty sure it was a little-explored area just right of my spleen called stark raving lust.
“You were married,” I said, empathy and jealousy battling for world domination.
Surprised, he turned back. “I was, yes.”
Standing close to him was like standing next to a jaguar. Well, a jaguar made of fire. Every move he made was powerful. Exotic. Hypnotizing. Or I was ovulating. It was a toss-up.
“I’m so sorry it didn’t work out. She seemed so devoted to you. Almost like she worshiped you. And then she, what? Broke it off? It makes no sense.”
His lids narrowed to glittering slits, as though he had no idea who I was talking about. “Who are you talking about?”
Nailed it.
“Your ex-wife. Elaine Oak.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “And I’m sorry about… about everything else, too.”
He stepped closer. “Everything else?”
“Yeah, you know, like… prison.”
A scorching heat wave slammed into me, and he closed the distance between us. “Where are you getting your information?”
My defenses rose. “I know what a Google is. I can use a computer.”
He lowered his head, his jaw straining against the force of his bite.
I wanted to explain. I understood. “The articles said that you were there for a crime you didn’t commit. That your conviction had been overturned. They weren’t bad.”
The next expression he graced me with was disappointment. But I felt something else radiate out. Pain. Had I hurt him? Surely a man of his experience couldn’t be so easily wounded. “Then by all means,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “find out what you can about me via the Internet. Because everything on the Internet is real. Except alien abductions. They’re bullshit.”
He turned away from me and lowered himself to the ground to continue whatever it was men did under sinks.
Awareness of him hummed through me, pulsed like a living thing, throbbed with a combination of fear and desire. He was so off-limits it was unreal. I needed to interrogate him, not pleasure him. And yet all I wanted to do was test those limits. To push them. To push him.
I wanted to play. To explore. But that would require him wanting to do the same in return. For some reason, I didn’t want to give him that much control. Not now. Not over me.
Was there a way to keep him at arm’s length while I, for lack of a better phrase, had my way with him? Would he let me? Would he want me to?