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And holy cow, he’s staring at me as if he knows it. As if he’s aware of exactly what I look like naked, wet, and desperate for his touch.
The longer he stares, the more flushed I feel. The achier and more aware I am of all the places that make me female. I know, without him even laying a finger on me, that he could sate me totally and utterly.
Not that he’s interested. Men, especially prime specimens like Marrok, are never attracted to me.
I’m not beautiful. Unusual or striking is how people usually describe me. My black hair, super pale skin, and odd violet eyes make me look like an extra from a Halloween spectacular. I even dress weirdly, according to my mom, like a cross between a bohemian and a ren-fair reject. And I’m plump. Put all that together, and it’s little wonder my track record with the opposite sex is nonexistent.
Still, Marrok continues to stare. Nonstop. His mouth twists in a mysterious expression I wouldn’t call a smile. Something about the way he looks at me makes me feel as if he knows my every thought and enjoys making me nervous.
Our silence stretches on. It doesn’t help that he flusters me so badly I can barely form words. Around him, I feel like a tongue-tied idiot.
His opinion doesn’t matter. Forget this morning’s dream. He’s an artist. You own a fledgling gallery. He has product to consign. Work it out…
My inner voice is pesky, but it’s right. A Touch of Magic has been my dream since I was a moody teenager. It was my mental beacon of hope every time my cold, overprotective mother burst through the door of our latest hovel and demanded I pack up to move again. I’m an adult now, and I want roots. A place to flourish and live. And I want that home in London.
Despite the fact I’d never been to the UK, the minute I stepped off the plane from the States, I felt as if I’d come home. I’m not leaving. Plus, I’ve sunk every dime into my gallery. So if I want to keep the doors open, I have to stop mooning over the hot hunk and negotiate.
“Nice to meet you, Marrok… I didn’t catch your last name.” I tremble as I stick out my hand.
He glances at my outstretched fingers but doesn’t take them. “Marrok of Cadbury.”
What kind of name is that? His alias as an artist? Something he invented because he hates whatever he was born with? Because he thought it sounded cool? Whatever.
I lower my hand and force a smile. “Olivia Gray. I’m interested in carrying your carvings. You have talent that deserves attention. I could help you—while making you a tidy sum.”
He raises a dark, disquieting brow. “Money interests me not.”
“Prestige, then? Recognition. Like I said—”
“I do not seek recognition.” He steps closer, blocking me in behind the shop’s counter, and towers over me. If his aim is to intimidate me with his size…score. One of his biceps looks as thick as my thigh.
But what he’s making me feel isn’t fear.
I’ve never been so aware of a man. Of my nipples being hard under my blouse. Of my pussy being wet beneath my skirt. It’s hard to even look at him without wanting to melt against his wide chest.
But we’re here for business, so I square my shoulders. “You must want something in exchange for your work. Tell me, and I’ll—”
“You know what I want.” His rough voice sounds dangerous. Demanding. Like a warning.
Thrill spreads through my body. My reaction is as confusing as he is. “I don’t.”
After refusing to shake my hand, Marrok breaches my personal space, clamping his thick fingers around my hips. His woodsy, wild scent envelops me. Desire jolts me like I’ve been lashed by a live wire. His touch is hot. Unsettling. And sexual.
“Look at me,” Marrok insists.
When did I start staring at the iron wall of his chest? Why am I not telling him to back away?
As I blink up, my head snaps back. His stormy eyes capture my stare. And his expression makes one thing very clear.
My lust isn’t one-sided.
I go weak in the knees. Yeah, I always thought that was a silly cliché. But no. It’s the perfect description for being confronted by a man who’s the embodiment of my seductive fantasies watching me as if he’s plotting ways to get me naked and under him.
He’s so close. My head tells me I should be afraid. Or at least annoyed. But I’m not. I feel only swoony desire—the kind that curls behind my clit and forces me to swallow back a moan.
“Marrok?”
“Aye.” His fingers tighten.
