Dirty Princes (Hot Candy 3)

I stop in the process of standing up. “Excuse me?”

“You run from me, run from Brylee. Kiss and run, is that your style?”

I freeze. Inside and out. “Who I kiss and what I do is none of your goddamn business.”

“That so?” He’s on his feet, too, wavering, and belatedly I realize he was probably drinking before I arrived. “What if I make it my business?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What do you think?” He walks around the low table, glass in hand, the towel riding perilously low on his hips. His eyes flash. “I wanted to talk to you, too.”

So close, he smells of soap, and whiskey, and sexy man. “About what?” I whisper.

“About Brylee.”

That breaks the spell. “What about her?”

“Why are you jerking on her strings? Pretending you don’t notice her, then bring her here, all but push her onto me, then kiss her…” He scowls and jabs a finger at me. “Man, you’re one sick motherfucker.”

“Fuck you.” I turn toward the door, but he grabs my arm, stops me.

“She’s a sweet girl. Clever, pretty, sexy. Kind. Stop giving her hope if you don’t plan on dating her.”

“Giving her hope? Are you fucking kidding me?” I shake his hand off me. “I never gave her hope.”

“And kissing her was, what? Office routine? Finish the report, have a coffee, kiss a girl?”

“You know nothing about me.” I shove him backward, and he staggers. My pulse is roaring in my ears. “So fuck off.”

“I can’t.” He finds his balance, straightens. “You can’t do this. Not to this girl.”

He’s… He’s in love with her. When did this happen?

I should have seen it coming. Because he’s right. I practically shoved them together, left them to have fun together, so why am I surprised?

Surprised, and disappointed, and fucking pissed off.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, asshole. What did you do? You kissed her, too, didn’t you?” Oh hell. “Did you fuck her?”

“And if I did?”

A red haze settles over my gaze. “You piece of shit.” My heart is banging against my ribs, going way too fast, but I don’t fucking care. “She’s mine.”

I shove him again, and this time he crashes against the shelves and barely manages to catch himself from falling. A grimace twists his features.

That’s when I remember his back. “Shit. Riddick.” I reach for him, and he recoils.

“Fuck you,” he all but spits in my face. “I’m just worried about her.” Another grimace.

Hell. “Did I hurt you? Riddick. Let me help you.”

But when I step closer, he plants a hand in the middle of my chest, stopping me. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you near me.”

His collarbone is strong, and beads of water speckle his square shoulders. A droplet runs down his temple, down his strong neck.

Fuck… I push against his hand. “Riddick.”

“What? What do you…?” His eyes turn uncertain. A vein beats fast in his neck. An urge to bite into his flesh, mark him, takes over my body.