Breathe You In (Sweet Torment 1)

My breath caught as my judgment balanced on a line between danger and excitement.

“Why?” I hated that my voice was little more than a whisper.

“Because you were painfully out of place in there.” He stepped toward me and lifted my chin with a single finger, coaxing my gaze to meet his. “Again, I mean that as a compliment.”

Once upon a time I’d thought I’d known how to handle powerful, wealthy men. I had been wrong. There had always been a secret expectation I couldn’t measure up to, and that knowledge had eaten away at the already-hollow spot in my chest. It had been made clear that I didn’t know how to blend into this kind of world, and I had no desire to try. But this man? All I could focus on was him. He wasn’t cold and calculated. He was warm and inviting.

“I don’t belong here,” I admitted and shook my head, hoping that the slight movement would jar my brain enough to keep it from imploding.

“I wish I could say the same,” he rasped. There was something so raw and genuine about the way he said it. As if he understood what it was like to have the earth spin around him instead of beneath him.

Once again, I was in over my head, and I had no idea how to dig my way out. Unfortunately, his presence was like gravity. It was hard to break away, and even more difficult to want to.

“I want to know something about you, Amy.” He tugged on the lapels of his jacket that covered me, pulling it a bit more securely around my shoulders.

“What would you like to know?”

“Something true.” He smiled, and I got a little caught up in it.

The more minutes passed, the more comfortable I grew. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was a touch off. Of all the people—the women—in that room, he had chosen to talk to

me. He must have an angle. Maybe he was trying to get me to admit to trespassing?

“You look like I asked you for the codes to a nuke.”

“Sorry.” I glanced down. “I was just trying to figure out why.”

“Why I want to know something about you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it wrong to have a conversation with someone who interests you?”

I chewed my bottom lip. He didn’t sound like someone who was angry or on the prowl to bust party crashers. Maybe the man just wanted a conversation.

“You want to know something true about me…will you return the favor?”

He arched a brow and his grin widened, seemingly pleased with my counteroffer. “Of course.”

“Okay, then.” I looked over his shoulder at the view of the Albany skyline. “Back home, I used to stand on my parents’ porch and just look out at all the acres of green grass. I was a kid and it seemed so big. I remember thinking that it must be the center of the earth, because nothing surrounded our farm for miles. But now, in the middle of all these old buildings and skyscrapers, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so small in my life.”

I looked up to find him gazing down at me. A mixture of fascination and raw heat burned through those obsidian eyes. He oozed so much alpha masculinity that it was hard to imagine what he was thinking. Most people wore their generic emotions—happy, sad, angry—rather obviously. Not him.

“Sometimes it’s nice to drown in the world instead of always riding at the forefront,” he murmured.

He picked up a lock of my hair. The back of his fingers grazed my breast, causing a totally different kind of shiver to race through me. Rubbing the tendril between his finger and thumb, he looked into my eyes.

“Small or not, Miss Underwood,” he said, his mouth hovering over mine, “you are certainly striking.”

I tried to catch the better judgment that was flying from my mind. I failed. Instead, I tilted my chin up. “Y-your turn to say something true.”

His gaze locked on my mouth. “I just did.”

He seized my lips with his. His warmth surrounded me, clutching me to him. One strong arm encircled my back while the other cupped my neck. His thumb brushed over my earlobe, and a shot of pleasure raced through my veins.

He delved his tongue inside my mouth, drinking in every small moan I uttered. He tasted good. Like fresh ice and winter mints. Crisp and addicting. My palms slowly roamed over his torso. Hard, cut abdominal muscles jumped beneath my hands, and I grappled with the material of his shirt, suddenly upset that fabric was covering his impressive chest.

“You taste like blueberries,” he growled against my mouth. “Sweet and ripe.”