“Sickness.”
“Woman.”
He pauses here. “You.”
“Sex.”
His nostrils flare. “Fuck.”
“Sin.”
“Salvation.”
“Happiness.”
He lunges forward.
On reflex, my breath seizes. Caught between fear and anticipation, I’m unable to move, to breathe, as he stops just short of touching me. Grayson hovers close enough that I can see the silver spun through the blue of his eyes, feel the heat of his skin. Close enough that his scent assaults me—sandalwood and a current of something darker, headier,him.
“There’s no such thing,” he says, his words low, coarse, matching the hard set of his jaw. “Stop asking the questions of a psychologist and get your answers, London.”
A tremble grips me as I try to hold still, not backing down from him. And yet, every atom in my body is fighting to either run or get closer.
Touch him.
My lungs burn until I’m forced to release a shaky breath. Grayson inhales sharply, as if stealing my breath for himself, igniting something primal and thrilling within me.
“An answer for an answer,” I finally say.
This pulls a striking smile from him, and his tongue coasts over his bottom lip, resting in the corner of his mouth as his gaze slowly flicks over my features. The way he’s looking at me, a dare banked behind his intense gaze, an unbearable heat descends between my thighs.
“An answer for an answer,” he affirms before he pushes away, settling back into his chair without ever having touched me.
I squeeze my thighs together, unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed by this fact, but knowing I can’t let him scent either reaction on me.
Gathering my bearings, I lace my hands together on my lap and ask, “Where are you from, Grayson?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Delaware.”
I arch an eyebrow.
Another charming smile crosses his mouth, and his dimple makes an appearance. “Originally, Kells. Northern Ireland.”
“What brought you to the States?”
He shakes his head. “My turn. Where are you from, London?”
Resistance flares with a dull ache in my back, but I answer him. “Hollows, Mississippi.”
“That’s not a real place.”
“It’s as real as it gets,” I counter.
“Is it some farming community,” he asks, “or is it known for something…else.”
I dig my elbows into my thighs, grounding myself. “Tell me about your scars.”
My question achieves what I want, shifting his focus from my past to his. “Which ones?”
