“I have several concerns.”
“Name one.”
She swallows. “You are very close.”
“I know.”
“And very big.”
“I know that too.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “You really don’t have to sound so certain about it.”
I nearly give her a smile.
She notices before I can bury it, and her face lights with the smallest flash of victory.
I like that look on her too much.
Four years in uniform taught me restraint. It taught me how to hold position with sand in my mouth, sweat in my eyes, and orders burning through the radio. It taught me how to breathe when every instinct in my body wanted movement.
None of that helps with Natalie Mullen pressed against my desk, talking too fast because she is nervous, looking at my mouth like she wants it, and pretending both of us are here for a lesson in public performance.
I lift one hand from the desk. “Give me your hand.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth again before snapping back to my eyes.
I wait.
She gives me her hand.
Small in my grip, warm and soft. Her pulse kicks hard against my thumb when I turn her wrist and press there.
“You are shaking,” I say.
“I am experiencing anticipation.”
“That is a prettier word for it.”
She narrows her eyes. “I am trying to maintain my composure.”
“You are doing better than Wesley.”
Her mouth twitches before she can stop it.
There she is.
I want that look on her all weekend. I want Lydia to see it. I want Wesley to see it. I want every person who trained this woman to swallow hurt to watch her smile like she has a man at her back who will burn the room down before letting anyone hurt her again.
I slide my thumb once over her pulse. Her breath catches.
“First rule,” I say. “When I touch you, you don’t freeze.”
“I didn’t freeze.”
“You did.”
“I was surprised.”
