Page 52 of Danger

He takes the cue from my hand and props it against the rail behind him. Then he steps in. Both knuckles land on the felt on either side of me, caging me against the pool table. Not touching me. But close enough that I feel him everywhere.

Somehow, that’s worse.

And then he looks at me. Not at Finn. Not at Rylee. Me. Like watching me laugh is the best thing that's happened to him all day.

“There it is.”

My smile falters. “What?”

“That smile.”

My cheeks burn, and I make a mental note to stop letting this man talk.

Only then does he glance over my shoulder. His eyes find Finn. Then come right back to me. “Got him.”

I fight every instinct to look.

“He’s watching closely… and now you know something he doesn’t.”

“What do I know?”

“That you could ruin him and you haven't decided if he's worth it.”

I forget Finn even exists.

Without thinking, my fingers slide over his forearm. Solid. Warm. Veined. Rylee looks like she might actually combust.

“See?” Danger says, tilting his head. “You're not asking for attention. You're taking it.”

My heart pounds so hard I'm worried he can feel it.

If this is his first lesson, I'm in trouble.

I rise onto my toes, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I like it when you tell me what to do…” His hand holds my hip to steady me. “...Daddy.”

Deep inside, the introvert in me—who avoids eye contact, prefers books and staying home—is hyperventilating. Did that even sound right coming from me?

Danger goes completely still.

Not the teasing kind of still. Not the amused kind. The kind that tells me he might need a second to recover. His grip tightens just slightly at my side, like his body reacted to that before he could stop it. When he pulls back enough to look at me, there’s a flicker in his eyes I’ve never seen before—dark, caught off guard, and burning.

Behind him, there’s a sharp crack.

Rylee has red wine dripping from her fingers. The stem of her glass hangs broken in her hand, there's shattered pieces on the floor at her feet. Her friends stare.

“Oh my God, Rylee—are you okay?”

She doesn’t look at them. She’s looking at us.

“I—I need to go,” she yells, grabbing a napkin, face flushed as she pushes past her table.

Danger doesn’t even turn around. "One down," he drawls.

His hand finds the small of my back, steering me toward the bar. By the time we reach the stools, he gives me a light nudge.

"Sit your pretty little self down. I'll get you a drink while what's-his-face figures out what's right in front of him."

I hate how much I like hearing him say things like that.