Royal Line (Tattered Royals #1) - Carrie Ann Ryan Page 0,29

meant to say.

Kannon’s throat worked hard as he swallowed. I could see the war in his eyes. But he seemed to be locked in place by the same force that held me there, unable to move. The pull. I’d felt it the moment I met him. The instant I’d wrapped my arms around his waist and let the scent of sandalwood envelop me. A fierce, raw connection kept us orbiting each other, and I wasn’t sure if either of us could get free.

Kannon stared down at me, his lips parting and his hand tightening ever so slightly on my backside.

I went wet.

And not from the shower.

“You’re only wearing a fucking towel, London. I don’t see any panties.”

“I think they’re by your foot,” I whispered. Why the hell did I sound so breathy?

“Well then.”

I met his gaze again, my mouth going dry.

My belly tightened, and the hand that held the towel shook.

“Well then,” I repeated in a whisper.

And then with a low, feral growl, his mouth was on mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, his lips bruising mine.

My fingers dug into his chest, gripping him tighter, and he tightened his hand on my ass, pulling tightly, spreading me.

I arched into him, kissing him harder, the taste of him scorching my tongue.

He tasted of toothpaste and coffee and whatever the hell it was that was all Kannon.

He bit at my lip, and then his other hand went to my hair, pulling the towel as it slithered down my back, causing the terrycloth I’d been wearing to almost fall completely, exposing one nipple and causing it to rub against him.

Kannon pulled away. “Fuck.” He turned, his back heaving as he forced his gaze away from mine. “Put on some fucking clothes.”

I blinked. Somewhere in my head there were brain cells that hadn’t been singed. And any second now, I was going to find words. “W-w-hat was that?” I asked, the coldness at his lack of touch freezing me.

He dragged in a deep breath and turned around, staring up at the ceiling. “Nothing. Go put on some fucking clothes. And panties more substantial than whatever scrap you had near your foot.”

He wouldn’t move, a frozen statue of heat and molten flesh.

And I stood there with my towel covering only one breast and not much else.

“I...what?”

“Put on some clothes, London.”

On his back was a sharp, jagged scar. How had I not noticed that before? “There’s a cut on your back,” I blurted, just now noticing. I couldn’t think through the haze of his touch, and I needed to breathe.

“I know. I was coming in here to put some antiseptic on it. Now put on some damn clothes, princess.”

“Let me help with that antiseptic.” I was babbling. I needed to do something, say something. What the hell had that kiss been about? More importantly, why had he stopped?

“London,” he growled. “I told you what I needed you to do.”

I licked my lips. “You’re hurt because of me. Let me help you.”

“You’ll help by putting on some fucking clothes.” He dragged in a breath. “Now, London.” He didn’t say that last part as an order. Instead, he whispered it, and then I was able to move.

The pleading in his words shot through me, and I bent down for my panties and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

I dropped the towel completely, tossed my panties on the rest of my pile of clothes, and went to the sink, gripping the edge of the tile.

That had not just happened.

I had not just kissed him back.

It was a mistake.

Liar.

In the mirror, my reflection showed off my flushed cheeks and my dilated pupils. What the hell I had done?

I thought back to the raw, ugly cut on his back and remembered what he had done for me, and I forgot all about the pulsing ache between my thighs.

He had been hurt because of me.

And I was going to fix this.

I quickly brushed my hair out, threw it into a bun on the top of my head, and pulled on my clothes as quickly as I could.

Hopefully he was still out there. Hopefully I could help. Because I refused to be useless.

I walked back into the bedroom, and he was still standing in the corner, this time a couple bandages in his hand, but his chest wasn’t heaving as much as it had been before.

“Let me help.”

He turned on his heel and glared at me, and I refused to let my gaze go to his mouth, or to