FLIRTING
HAVEN
Connor is leaning against the doorjamb, filling the entire doorway though his feet are definitely inside the room. He has a determined look on his face, a slight twitch to his lips, and he’s still holding the foxglove in his hand.
“Seriously?” he asks, like I’m the one being unreasonable. “Was that necessary, lollipop? Running away right after I ripped open my chest and told you how much I fucking love you so that, this time, you can’t deny it? That I always have loved you, and now it’s time you understand I always will?”
My reaction is instinctive: I stick my tongue out at him. Lollipop? Wasthatnecessary?
And when did he say any ofthat? I stopped listening to him… and maybe I shouldn’t have.
Uh-oh.
Despite the hint of frustration clinging to his broad shoulders, there’s no denying the sudden heat that fills his expression, and my cheeks go red when I understand why that is. Shit. I’ve been so careful, not making any offers that I can’t standby. Flipping him the middle finger is one thing. But sticking out my tongue at him?
In answer, his darts out, dabbing at the corner of his mouth as he takes a big, purposeful step inside my sanctuary.
I retreat automatically, hating myself the second I do it. Hating that my body still moves before my mind can stop it. Hating that I back away from him like I backed away fromthem, like he’s the same kind of danger just because he’s big and male and blocking the only exit to this tiny room.
I fucking love you…
I back up, but for the first time since I woke up in his bed and he told me not to worry, that I was safe with him, he continues coming for me, crowding me until I hit the wall.
Suddenly, one hand lands beside my head, his palm flat against the plaster. Not touching me. Not restraining me. Just there, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, close enough that his scent—a combination of his soap and his morning coffee and something undeniablyConnor—completely surrounds me.
The foxglove dangles from his other hand, the poisonous, purple bells swaying inches from my face.
“Haven…”
I gulp.
There’s something about the way he says my name like that. When he isn’t teasing or tacking on another annoying nickname like he’s searching for the right one to saddle me with.
Not lollipop. Not darling. Not sweetie.
JustHaven.
His voice is both low and rough, and it strikes me at that very moment that I’ve made a big mistake. All along, I’ve been looking at Connor Heyward and remembering the boy he was. The eighteen-year-old kid who made such a lasting impression on me before I spent the next nine-plus years avoiding him as best I could.
But, somewhere in those last nine years, Connor became a man—and I’m looking dead at him as he dips his chin so that I have no choice but to do so.
It seems to me like the time for games is over. Teasing? Not right now. He’s nothing short of serious as he closes the gap between us, the warmth of his breath washing over me as he speaks.
"Haven't I made it clear?” He shifts his hand, bringing the foxglove closer to me. “Crystal fucking clear? I've always been yours, Haven." The poisonous flower brushes my cheek as Connor leans even further in, whispering against my lips. "And you will always be mine."
That’s what he thinks…
He’s still too, too close. I glare up at him, torn between wanting to shove him away and yanking his shirt so I can pull him closer—and I hate that that’s even an impulse. Worse, I want him to know that he gave me this room, he told me it was mine… and here he is, crowding me while twirling the foxglove. But I can’t bring myself to say the words, so I only hope the twist of my features tells him exactly how I feel.
This is all Connor’s fault. The only time I finally found my voice after what happened to me, he scarred me by his reaction. What kind of fucked-up creep grunts and comes in his pants because I finally found it in me to tell him to let me go? And, okay, maybe it was the way I had his knife to his throat that made Connor go off like a rocket. That’s just what I would expect from him.
Just like how he somehow must’ve gotten the idea that bringing me a fresh cutting of an infamously poisonous plant must count as bringing me flowers…
He needs to get out of here. He needs to stop saying things he can’t mean. He needs togo…but that’s not what he does.
Before I can shake my head, mouth the word ‘no’, or find the nerve to shove him away from me, he closes the last of the space between us, taking my lips like he did the night I bit him.
Only this time? I don’t bite him.
