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He lays my hand in his much bigger one, the top of my hand nestled in his palm. I try not to, but I can’t help shaking. My heart beats faster. I’m so acutely aware of how strong and masculine he is, from the prominent veins in his forearms to his rougher, larger fingers, clearly accustomed to manual labor and exercise.
I like the warm touch of his skin against mine.
I like the concern in his voice.
I like being the very center of his attention.
And he hasn’t lost his temper with me.
With a scowl and a sharp intake of breath, he slowly unfolds my fingers. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
I give myself the briefest of moments to look at him. To really,reallylook at him and not hide my gaze from his or look away because I fear I’ll be attracted to him.
And when I do—when I actually take a straight look at this man—I almost laugh. How could any red-blooded woman whose heart still beats in her chest look at this man andnotbe attracted to him?
He couldn’t be more unlike me. Where I’m fair and blonde and slender, he’s thick and muscular, with dark, swarthy skin and scruffy stubble. My eyes are pale blue but his go from coffee-colored to black depending on his mood. I’m small and slender, while he’s strapping and sculpted.
A sense of importance clings to him like royalty, and he takes up entire doorways with his imposing presence.I’m happiest when I’m invisible.
Though he doesn’t seem completely at ease—like a man who’s been in the military for years without a breath of respite, always on edge, always ready—he’s comfortable in his own skin. I suspect it isn’t a lack of confidence that makes him restless, but a lack of trust. Still holding my hand in his, we stand.
I’m fixated on the broad spanse of his shoulders and his forearms bulging through his tight shirt. The way his rough, masculine hands gentle when he touches me.
We once had a guard dog, years before I married Seth. I was warned not to touch him. But there was something about his nearby, restless presence that made me feel safe and protected. I was punished more than once for curling up next to him in the gated kitchen to go to sleep. I never slept so well as I did with his warm body pressed to mine, knowing that no one could hurt me when I was beside him. I haven’t felt so safe since then… until now.
His eyes meet mine. “There’s a first aid kit under the kitchen sink. You’re going to sit on this stool while I get it. I’ll clean this up and you’ll let me. You won’t talk back or try to get away or give me another fucking apology. Is that clear?”
I swallow and nod. Boy, his mother must be so proud of his vocabulary.
I know better than to saythatout loud.
“We’ll talk about your salary,” he continues. “And then you’ll answer my questions.” There’s no conversation or suggestion, but a simple statement of what’s going to happen.
I’m curious. Genuinely curious. I stare at him and wonder.
“What?” he says.
I want to please this man, and I’m afraid his prompting question is more dangerous than anything sexual we could ever do.
“You order me around so confidently.”
The gentle arching of his brows shows surprise. “You haven’t been around here long enough yet,” he says in that husky tone that might tempt me to sin. “It’s how I am with everybody.”
“Everybody?”
“Yeah.”
“Even the people that pump your gas?”
“Yes.”
“What about your mother?”
“I don’t talk much to my mother.”
Interesting.
“Your siblings? Do you have any siblings?”
