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I wish he didn’t say my name that way. He says it like it’s water dripping over his parched lips, like he’s been waiting to see me all morning, all evening, all of his life.
I gulp and lift up the coffees I’m holding. I can’t quite meet his gaze, so I stare at the stubble speckled over his strong jaw. “A peace offering,” I explain. “For slapping you and for being rude when you came to my house. But if you’re busy, I’ll just leave the coffee here and let you keep working.” I place the black coffee on the nearest horizontal surface, spin on my heels, and flee.
I make it as far as Sebastian’s truck when he catches me. A gloved hand closes around my arm as he whirls me around and presses me against the passenger door, hands planted on either side of me like a warm, sweaty, manly cage.
My knees go wobbly.
“Let me go,” I say, holding my coffee cup between us like a shield.
“No.” His eyes are very blue as his gaze roams over my face: my forehead, my eyes, my lips, my throat.
“Sebastian, I do not enjoy being restrained. I just wanted to give you a coffee and tell you there were no hard feelings.”
Something flashes in his eyes—dark, dangerous, titillating. I clench my thighs together for a reason I don’t care to explore right now.
“Hard feelings, huh?” he repeats, his voice rough as gravel. When he says the words, they sound dirty. “You and me need to talk, sweetheart.”
I turn my head to the side and stare at my scooter—or what I can see of it over his thick, sinewy arm. His skin is sun-darkened with a deep Texas tan, but I can see a pale strip as his T-shirt rides up slightly on his shoulder. Then I realize I’m staring at his arm and not my scooter, and mentally slap myself. I refocus on the red paint that gleams under the midmorning sun. It’s sparkly and perfect and mine.
Sebastian shifts in my peripheral vision and uses his teeth to tear off his thick leather glove from his opposite hand, leaving the street-side arm firmly planted over my shoulder to stop my escape. He tosses the glove on the ground, and it lands with a heavy slap of fabric against the cracked asphalt. His feet widen their stance to capture both of mine between his spread legs.
I shore up my defenses, not acknowledging that he’s giving me exactly what I craved when I walked into his shop.
Then, gently, Sebastian takes the tips of his fingers and presses them against my chin. He turns my head until I meet his gaze. “Don’t run away from me, Georgia.” His words slide over my skin like the softest, most erotic velvet. “If you came here to have a coffee with me, you should sit that pretty little ass on one of my stools and have a coffee with me.”
“I hate the way you speak to me,” I lie. His fingers are still on my chin, his eyes roaming over my features once more, like he’s trying to learn me, or memorize me, or understand me. I’ve never had a man look at me like this before. Every single bit of his attention is focused on me, like I’m the focal point of his entire world.
He would be dynamite in bed.
“Stay,” he commands so softly it almost sounds like a request, and damn him, because I want to obey.
Everything inside me rebels at the thought of doing what he wants, except for the very thin sliver of my soul that tells me it might feel good to comply, to spend a few minutes watching him move, to have those icy blue eyes making me burn up every time he glances at me.
“I only came here to give you a coffee and apologize for slapping you. I’m not trying to be your friend.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, but his lips don’t smile. “That’s lucky for me, darlin’, because I don’t wanna be your friend either.”
The sinful meaning of his words makes butterflies riot in my stomach. “This was a mistake.” I shove against his chest, which does precisely nothing to move him out of my way. “Seb. Move. Let me go home.”
At the sound of his old nickname, he inhales and crowds closer. “I want to talk to you about a few things.” He takes the latte out of my hands to place it on the top of the truck’s cab behind my head.
“What are you doing?” I squeak. “If you kiss me again, I swear to God I will kick you in the balls. And I won’t buy you a coffee afterward, either.”
“I won’t kiss you,” he says, his hands once again planted on either side of my head.
Because I’m an absolute moron, I feel disappointed at his words. I hide it with a glare. “So move out of my way.” I grit my teeth. “Please.”
He smells divine. Like male sweat and cotton and leather, with the bite of hard metal just below the surface. It’s making me dizzy being this close to him.
It makes me even dizzier when he drops his gaze to my dress, moving his fingers to trace the thick strap on my shoulder. His hand drifts over the floral pattern until he gets to the neckline, where the soft skin of my breast is exposed. I let out a trembling breath, wanting to slap him, wanting him to grope me with those rough, calloused hands.
“I like this dress,” he tells me.
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll let you go if you promise to come back inside and stay until you’ve finished your coffee.” His hand moves from the neckline of my dress to my waist, where his thumb sweeps over my hipbone in one gentle, blazing touch.
“Fine,” I grit out. “Now please get out of my way.”
