Page 48 of Hunter

He locks onto the words. His eyes darken, a slow predatory focus that makes my stomach flip for reasons I’m not naming right now.

“This time?” His voice drops full of teasing. “So there’s gonna be a next time? You already planning on letting me feed you again, Charlie?”

I really like the way he says my name. It sends a shiver straight down my spine. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide.

“Maybe,” I say, bumping into his side deliberately as we step up to the cart. “If you behave.”

Hunter’s hand slides a little lower on my back, thumb brushing just above the waistband of my jeans. The touch is light, but it burns.

“I’m not great at behaving,” he murmurs close to my ear, voice rough. “Especially when you keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.

“Like you’re trying to decide whether you want to draw me or climb me.”

Heat floods my face. I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “You’re trouble.”

“Yeah?” He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts over my skin. “You like trouble, Charlie?”

I swallow hard. My body is screaming yes while my brain is waving every red flag it owns.

The cart guy interrupts us with a cheerful “Beautiful! The usual for you today?” and I’m grateful for the distraction. I order quickly, cheeks still burning. Hunter pays before I can argue, then hands me my wrap with a look that says he knows exactly how flustered I am.

We find a spot on the low stone wall edging the park and sit close enough that our thighs press together. I unwrap the foil and take a big bite. The spices hit perfectly, but a little tahini sauce escapes the corner of my mouth.

Before I can wipe it away, Hunter’s hand moves.

His thumb brushes the edge of my lip, catching the sauce. My breath catches completely.

Then—without breaking eye contact—he brings his thumb to his own mouth and sucks it clean.

Holy fuck.

The sight of it—his lips closing around his thumb, the brief flash of his tongue—hits me like a live wire. Suddenly I’m hyper-aware of how hot he actually is. The stubble on his jaw. The broad, solid build. The dark intensity in his eyes as he watches my reaction as though he wants to devour me right here on this wall.

I swallow hard, the falafel suddenly tasting like nothing.

Hunter’s mouth curves into that half-smirk, thumb still lingering at his bottom lip for a second like he knows exactly what he just did to me.

“Messy eater,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it feels private even with the city noise all around us. “Good to know.”

Heat floods my face so fast I have to look away, staring down at the wrap in my hands like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. My ears are burning. I can feel him watching me, that dark, steady gaze practically burning a hole through the side of my head.

After a beat, Hunter’s voice comes again, low and a little rough. “So… ‘Beautiful,’ huh?”

I glance back at him, still flushed. He’s got this tiny, jealous edge to his expression that he’s trying (and failing) to hide.

I can’t help it—I laugh, the sound bubbling out of me before I can stop it. “Oh my God. Are you jealous of the falafel guy?”

Hunter shrugs one shoulder, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Does the guy call you ‘Beautiful’ every time you show up? He sounds pretty familiar with you.”

“He calls everyone beautiful,” I tease, bumping my shoulder against his. “Old ladies, tired businessmen, the pigeons. It’s his thing. You gonna fight a sixty-year-old cart guy for complimenting me?”

Hunter leans in a little closer, voice dropping into that dangerous register again. “Depends. You like it when he says it?”

I bite my lip to keep from grinning too wide, the flush still hot on my cheeks. “Jealousy looks good on you, actually. Kind of hot.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s doing this. The tension between us simmers hotter now, thick and sweet and a little ridiculous.