Riot

Though he doesn’t touch me. No part of our bodies is touching, but his gaze is like a wall of fire, crashing into me, passing through me. My core clenches, my breasts tighten, and I press my back against the mirror cove

ring the insides of the elevator, breathing hard.

What is he doing to me? He’s only standing there, looking mildly amused. And then we stop, the doors dinging as they open.

Dazed, I watch as he reaches down, between his legs. Tugging. Accommodating his hard-on.

He’s aroused. Holy crap, he’s so hard I can see the outline of his cock inside his jeans.

“Coming?” he rasps, gesturing at the open elevator doors, and it takes me a second to make sense of the word.

Right.

As I step outside, onto the landing, and lift the key to open the door to the room, I wonder what’s about to happen.

***

He follows me inside, unzipping his jacket but making no move to take it off, although it’s warm in the room. I shrug off my coat, drape it over the back of a chair and twist my hands together.

I feel like I should explain myself—why I made this appointment, why I ran away last time, why I told him this was a mistake.

Instead I find myself staring at him, fascinated. God, he’s beautiful. Not perfect, but beautiful in his imperfection.

“You have a scar,” I whisper, breathless, realizing he’s come nearer, that now I’m standing so close to him I can touch the scar if I lift my hand. “On your jaw.”

It’s long and thin, and it’s the first time I notice it. The scruff he sported before had hidden it.

He blinks, reaches up to touch it. The urge to push his hand away and trace the white line myself is making my fingers twitch.

“It’s just a scar,” he says, his voice rough. His gray eyes darken to slate. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“All scars hurt,” I whisper. “With every change in the weather.”

“Well, it’s warm in here, with you.” He grins, all dimples, and I take a step back. “Relax. I won’t bite, Pax. That costs extra.”

I stare at him in disbelief, but I’m already choking on laughter. “Really?”

He nods solemnly. “Depends where you want me to bite, of course, and if you want a mark. A love bite.”

Shit, I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

A love bite. And why does the idea make me want to fan myself?

“Everything costs extra with you,” I say, trying to recover, trying to gauge him.

“What can I say? I’m worth every penny.”

I bet he is. And the thought of him with other women, other clients, shouldn’t make me want to slap them and pull out their hair.

Jesus, Pax.

“What’s on your mind?” He takes the step that brings him flush against me—again without touching. “You’re overthinking, aren’t you?”

“How would you know?” His scent is making my dizzy. I want to touch him. It was never a matter of not wanting.

The fear is what stops me.

“Your forehead gets all wrinkly with accumulated thought.” He dips his head and God, his mouth is inches from mine. “It makes your eyeballs bulge.”