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Never felt the need to touch a man’s shoulders, his face, his lips before. Not like this.
Refusing to linger on the thought, I pull my hands back. He resists, I pull harder, he lets go—and I knock into the still closed door. My bruised backside sends a jolt of agony up my spine, and I yelp.
“Dammit, I knew you were hurt.” He grabs me and turns me around, so that I face the door, and I put up my hands to stop from faceplanting into the wood. He tugs me backward just in time to avoid that, and his hands are on my ass.
I repeat, his hands are on my ass. Eep.
“What do you think you’re doing? Hey!” I twist around and slap at his chest, pushing him away. “Hands off.”
He lifts his hands, and oh God, he’s grinning. So not fair. It’s a crooked, sexy grin that lights up the blues in his eyes and melts me into a puddle of goo.
“You’re cute,” he says, and that sexy raspy bedroom voice will be my undoing, I swear. After his body does me in, of course, and let’s not forget the way his concern touched me.
Ugh. “I’m not cute.”
“Yes, you are.” He reaches for my face and trails his thumb over my lips. “Cute and funny.”
I sputter. That’s not what I want a handsome, sexy guy to tell me. But before I find the right swearword to fling at him, the flare of something darker in his eyes stops me.
“Well, I’m fine, as you can see,” I say, my voice shaky and kinda breathy. Why the hell is my voice breathy?
“Yes, you’re fine,” he agrees, his eyes darkening more, dipping to my breasts. His other hand smacks into the door above my head, and the length of his hard, strong, half-naked body presses into mine. His tongue darts out and licks his lower lip, and now he’s looking at me like I’m dessert.
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles.
Damn!
His eyes flick back up to my face, and his brows arch.
“Sorry,” I say and try to pull away from where he’s got me pinned against the door. This is the mother of all bad ideas. “I just…”
“Come over for dinner.”
“Dinner?” Wait, wait. I blink. He’s still there, waiting for my answer. “No way. I don’t even know you.”
He grins again, and my panties are on fire. “I told you. I’m Storm. And don’t I stay far from here.” He winks. “You saw me fixing the fence. You know where the house is.”
Shit, he noticed me then. “That where you’re staying?”
“For now.”
“You housesitting, too?”
“Something like that.”
Haha. Funny. “And you’ll cook?”
He shakes his head and snorts. “Maybe.”
“Well, I can’t come.” Because I shouldn’t. But I’m hungry. And he’s pretty. Okay, more rugged than pretty. Still. “I really don’t know you. What if you’re a serial killer or something?”
“I promise you, I’m not.”
Yeah, well. “And I don’t know your real name.”
His expression shutters. “Storm is what everyone calls me.” He draws back and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. I’ll be sitting outside, if you happen to walk by.”
He backs away, a frown drawing his dark brows together, and cold air rushes between us, raising gooseflesh. I rub my hands up and down my arms, missing his warmth, the feel of his body, the brightness of his gaze.
