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I said yellow, trying to be gender neutral, and by day four, I had a yellow silk handkerchief and a tulip bouquet.
I can’t cave again. “You—”
“What did the SAS do to you?” His blindside rattles between my ears.
“Nothing,” I answer fast, forced, and incredibly fake.
“I saw your ankles,” he offers, teasing the scab of my ugliest wound. “Who, when, and how.”
“Nothing,” I repeat, just as fake, but much firmer.
“Lie,” he hisses, brushing my cheek with his knuckles.
I dodge his touch.
Need him to stop looking at me.
To stop seeing me. “I handle my own business. Get me out of the country, and I won’t be your problem anymore.”
Bish traps my head between his arms, so close to grazing the danger zone. “That’s where we have our miscommunication. You can lie to me. I’ll even help you lie. But never. Never shut me out. Your business has been my business ever since you showed up at my field.”
I don’t want to shut him out.
Don’t want to lie.
But I have to hold back the truth.
Bishop dips his head. Lips the darkest red. Hazel eyes lit with yawning pupils, hair and collar pristine.
But his breath is wild.
My blood fizzes.
I need to move, but my wiring’s fried by champagne. Bubble-pops stop the signal warning me to escape.
“Who hurt you?” He breathes so close I have to bite my lip to keep our mouths from touching.
I shiver.
It’s a good shiver.
Not a get-away, run-away, clammy-with-cold-sweat shiver, but a warm, liquid feeling—a delicious drizzle of hot peach, melting my bones.
His dominance holds as firmly as his arms.
Supporting me.
Protecting me.
He seriously thinks I’m his mate.
We’re sharing air.
Heat.
Lips so close, we’d kiss through tissue paper.
The flinch I’m waiting for never shows.
