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He hauls me closer. Our bodies brush. More heat crashes through me. Is he…? Yes, hard as hell.
Oh, god.
I raise a shaking hand—to ward him off? To touch him in return? I’m not even sure. But when I settle my palm over his chest, he’s like living, breathing stone. His heart hammers. A wave of dizziness hits me. My knees threaten to go out from under me. I grab his shoulder to stay upright.
He sidles even closer. Our chests brush. His warm breaths heat my tingling lips. My heart gallops. My skin sizzles.
I’ve never felt anything like this.
His grip tightens, fingers digging into my fleshy curves. Suddenly, I’m embarrassingly aware of every cheeseburger I’ve wolfed down for a quick dinner, every scone I’ve devoured to feel like a true Brit, and all the workouts I’ve missed because I’ve been busy getting my gallery off the ground. Since Marrok is super fit, he’s probably the kind of guy who loves a good thigh gap. Me and my thick legs are doomed to disappoint him.
You would be so pretty if you just lost weight…
I shove my mother’s critical voice out of my head and drag in a steadying breath. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Touching me.” Confusing me. “Don’t.”
His mouth flattens to a dangerous slash. After a slight hesitation, he releases me and steps back.
His spell over my senses lifts, but I still can’t breathe. I’m weirdly cold without his touch. I feel incomplete. And exhausted, as if the man stole all my energy the moment he let go.
My imagination is in overdrive. I must be tired, since I didn’t go back to sleep after my erotic dream of him by the pond. Unfortunately, all attempts to satisfy myself before work were fruitless. Now I’m just torqued up. Looking at him only makes me ache for him more.
“We’re discussing business.” I banish my inner, trembling virgin and go for no-nonsense professional. “I’m offering to sell your work and give you half the profits. That does not give you the right to put your hands on me.”
Crossing his arms over his massive chest, Marrok dissects me with his stare. “Touching you was a mistake.”
Of course he thinks that. Now that he’s had his hands on my hips and knows the extra pounds I’m hiding under this skirt, I hold a lot less appeal.
But the me that loves fantasy of all kinds regrets that I didn’t have my way with this hot hunk at least once before he changed his mind…
Get your head out of your panties, girl. “Then we agree? You’ll provide me your work, and I’ll give you half the profits?”
The door chime sounds again. I whirl to find Bram strolling toward us, burlap bag in hand. “Found the carving. Looked all over the car, forgetting we stashed it in the boot.”
Marrok doesn’t respond. Neither do I. I should inspect the carving and see if it’s up to the standard of his earlier work. But I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s staring right back, blazing fire at me. He exudes anger and something else—lust? I’m not sure. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s harsh and powerful.
But why does he look so…bleak?
“Is something wrong?” Bram asks.
I clear my throat. “Marrok? My offer?”
He leans in, his thick fingers curling around the counter on either side of my hips, caging me in. My heart skips more than a beat as he bends until our faces are inches apart. “I would rather bed down with the devil. I trust him more.”
With disdain darkening his glare, Marrok pushes away, storms across the shop, and flings the door open wide. The chime dings, but the sound is drowned out by the frame crashing against the wall. I jump, gasping as he disappears as fast as his black boots will take him.
I’m more crushed than I should be.
Worse, I don’t understand what the hell just happened. Has he been shafted by a gallery owner before? Maybe his massive ego can’t tolerate the fact that I rebuffed him. Or maybe he resents that, even for a moment, he found me arousing.
“That’s bloody odd.” Bram scowls. “What did you two argue about?”
“I don’t know. Nothing.”
He hands me the carving. “Take this. I’ll chat with him.”
