“It does not.”
“It does, too.”
I bite my lip, fighting laughter. His eyes dance with mirth and something else, something darker, like before. He’s close enough I can’t look down, but I’m pretty sure he’s hard. In fact, when I turn my hips a little, I feel it, feel his hard cock brush over my side.
Oh God. My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. My mouth is dry.
“What do you want to do today?” he whispers, and his broad chest rises and falls, so close I could lay my head on it, on those hard pecs.
“I want you to tell me.”
He frowns down at me, and I replay the words in my mind. I hadn’t planned to say that, but it’s true. That’s what I want.
“You said you can help me,” I mutter. “I want to try again.”
“What changed your mind?”
I shake my head. Hard to tell. But...“It’s easier.”
“What’s easier?”
“Being near you.” I draw a deep breath and slide my hand up his chest, over the soft cotton of his T-shirt, feeling his muscles shift under my palm. “Touching you.”
“Pax.” My name catches in his throat, a quiet exhalation, and under my hand every muscle goes taut and hard like steel.
“Tell me. What else? What next?”
“I don’t get to tell clients what they—”
“Just tell me, Riot, before I lose my nerve.” I’m pleading now, because familiar terror is crowding my thoughts. “Please.”
He swallows. “Okay. Okay, all right? I’ll tell you.” He reaches down, grabs my wrist, his fingers engulfing half my forearm. “Touch me.”
He slides my hand down his chest, a slow drag over his solid abs, over every groove and ridge. Lower, over the dip of his bellybutton, and lower still.
I resist. He gives a tug. I give in.
My hand settles over the bulge in his pants. He hisses between his teeth, but I’m more interested in the sensation of his hard cock under my palm, the scorching heat seeping through the fabric. It moves under my hand, hardening more, and his grip on my wrist tightens.
We stand like that, my hand on his denim-covered crotch, his fingers wrapped around my arm. Both breathing hard. Both rooted to the spot.
“Riot?”
“Sorry.” He licks his lips, his eyes dark. “You feel so good.”
Something inside me relaxes at his words. He likes my hand on him. And I like my hand on him, the effect I have on his body.
Experimentally I shift my hand to cup his balls, and he groans. It’s faint, but comes deep from within his chest, like a rumble of thunder.
Heat washes through my chest, down my belly, settling between my legs.
“Are you okay?” he asks, husky and low, and the heat turns into a throb, an ache that I need to satisfy.
I need him to touch me. But I can’t. That would be like that night—and right now things are so different that I’m holding it together. I think I am, at least, but there’s no telling if that might change at any moment.
“Hey. Pax.” He releases my wrist. “Earth to Pax. Shit, did I scare you?”
“No. No, I’m fine.” And I am, I realize. As I lift my hand off him, I poke around in my mind, but I sense no panic.