Page 18 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

The hallway smells of clean carpet and old wood. My room is at the end, tucked away. I unlock the door with hands that only shake a little and flick on the light.

The room is small but neat. Bed. Nightstand. A chair by the window. My bag half unpacked. The carved fox peeks out from the drawer where I left it, keeping watch.

Wayne steps inside and stops just past the threshold, giving me space even now.

I turn to face him, suddenly acutely aware of everything. How close he is, how warm the room feels, how my body is humming.

I laugh softly, breathless. “I feel like I should say something.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t have to.”

I feel the heat of him before I’m close enough to touch. The faint scent of clean soap and leather, motor oil scrubbed away but still lingering beneath it. A darkness underneath. Adrenaline. Control. The calm of a man who knows exactly how strong he is.

His eyes track my movement, measuring the distance the same way I’ve measured every distance in my life: the door, the nearest exit, the quickest path to safety.

Only now I’m measuring the distance to him.

I stop within arm’s length, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble at his jaw, close enough to notice the way his throat works when he swallows.

Close enough that the air between us feels like a held breath.

His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

A flicker of emotion crosses his face. Control tightening, desire slipping its teeth in, the smallest fracture in his composure.

I lift my hand slowly, giving him time to stop me. My fingers hover near his shirt, near the open collar, near that strip of skin.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just inhales, steadying himself for impact.

My fingertips touch the fabric at his chest.

His gaze darkens, and I see the animal under the discipline. The predator under the calm. The part of him that could take and take and take. And yet, he stands still, waiting for my choice.

My breath shudders.

He lifts a hand and cups my face like it’s precious, something he’s handling carefully on purpose. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, light enough that it makes my breath hitch.

“Is this okay?”

No one has ever asked me that.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He leans in, pauses again, forehead resting against mine, breath warm. When he kisses me, it’s unhurried. Exploratory. Like he’s listening as much as touching. He takes my mouth like he’s been holding back all night and finally snapped.

His hands slide up my arms, down my waist, back up again, trying to touch all of me at once, but can’t decide where to start. I gasp into the kiss, and he makes a low sound in response, a deep, hungry rumble that shoots fire down my spine.

He palms my waist, fingers spreading, pulling me flush against him.

“Holy shit…” he breathes against my lips, like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning.

My head spins.

His hands move again. Up my ribs, slow enough to make me shiver, firm enough to tell me exactly how badly he wants me. His thumbs brush the curve beneath my bra, barely holding back, making my breath stutter.

He feels the tremor.

“You like my hands on you,” he murmurs.