Skin (Flesh 2)

“Honestly?”

“Nick, how can I feel differently when you’ve got me chained to the furniture?”

The man actually snarled. “Ignore the chain.”

“I can’t. It’s around my ankle. Mine. Not yours, Nick.”

“Do you hate me?”

She groaned and sighed and winced. Being cornered didn’t suit her. “I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know.” The tip of his nose brushed against hers and she half-heartedly swatted at him. “Stop it.”

He sat back on his heels, his dark gaze steady on her. “I promise I won’t leave you on your own again.”

“This isn’t like the other promises where you change your mind when it suits you, is it?”

He didn’t even blink. “No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She sucked in a deep breath and felt good for the first time in a long time. Her lungs expanded gratefully as relief flowed through her. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “I did leave a key hidden here. You would have found it eventually.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” he said. “You don’t really hate me.”

“How do you know?” she asked, genuinely curious. He sounded so sure of himself. That need to know was her one very real fault, or at least the main one. God, the trouble it had gotten her into, curiosity.

The side of his mouth slowly curled into an untrustworthy smile. He sat there on his haunches, bare-chested, just like the day before when he’d kissed her. She’d been so mad. Now she simply lacked the energy.

“Right there,” he said. “That look.”

“What look?”

The other side of his mouth rose until he was giving her a smile to level mountains. Or at the very least move them. Her heart did some awful fluttery thing she didn’t appreciate. Probably a result of all the upset he’d caused her.

“The look you give me before you remember to be pissed at me.” He leant forward and she resisted the urge to shuffle back. “You don’t hate me, Roslyn. Not even a little.”

“Do too.”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “You don’t.”

“That’s what you think,” she said, because she needed to say something and that was the best her absent brain could do.

With a wink the bastard rose to his feet. “I can’t believe how you trashed the place.”

“Mm,” she said.

He bitched some more about the mess.

She ignored him.

Because he was wrong; she did hate him.

Mostly.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nick wasn’t usually the type to hang about in bed. Or at least, not without a damn good reason.

His good reason lay half across him, sound asleep. Roslyn was sprawled over him, her cheek on his chest. Their cuffed wrists sat on his stomach and he lay on his back, reading. The position made holding the notebook tricky, but he was determined. It seemed more of a diary than a notebook and it had been jam-packed full of Roslyn’s thoughts on pretty much everything.

How she hated red wine, but loved gin. The names of the many romance books she’d read and what she thought of them, in excruciating detail. Her tiffs with her mum and worries about her job. Some concerns regarding the size of her ass and how her br**sts didn’t sit as high as they used to. Which wasn’t right, because her tits and ass were perfect. Judging from what little he’d seen of them, of course. A closer look would help him reassure her.

Fuck, he wished. She would have to be asleep or hysterical to let him near her.

Ros snuffled on his chest. Her fingers flexed against his ribs, the short nails scraping over his skin grabbing his immediate attention. Hard not to be hard with a hot woman all over you, and this woman in particular, she felt just right. He stroked her crazy red hair, crooning nonsense to her for a moment. She seemed to like that. Her body relaxed against him, soft and sweet.

Despite the room being closed up, enough daylight peeked through here and there for him to read by. There were complaints about her father in the diary, a fair few of those. Seemed her dad had been quite the army man, moving them around, handing down orders. In truth, he sounded a bit of a jerk. No wonder she wasn’t impressed with Nick’s choice of career. Those days, however, were gone. But they had left him with the ability to protect and care for her. Ideally, it’d score him some points, but she wasn’t that easy.

She had dated. A decent number of men’s names came up in the diary, maybe even a few more than he felt comfortable with. Though if he was being a judgmental prick, he’d say she put more energy into the books she read. They certainly got more line space and fewer insults lobbed their way.

Seemed Roslyn was a very picky girl when it came down to it. Not so surprising.

Eyelashes fluttered over him, tickling him, as she stirred once more against his chest. Her mouth opened wide on a yawn, jaw cracking. The length of her body arched and went rigid as she stretched her back, the mounds of her br**sts pushing into him. He’d be f**king delighted to set her straight with regard to her br**sts. They were delicious and so was she. What were the odds of the sweater she was wearing magically disappearing? Probably low.

“Morning,” he said.

After blinking several times, she looked up at him and scowled. She abandoned her position, rolling off him and onto her side. Her wrist tugged at the cuffs, dragging at him. He almost dropped her diary.

She gazed at him crankily, terse lines bracketing her mouth. “What …”

Hard not to smile at her. She was so cute, all sleepy and ruffled. She frowned at his chest as if it had personally assaulted her. Like she hadn’t smeared herself all over him in her sleep of her own free will. Well, maybe she’d had a little help. A warm woman could be hard to resist on a cold winter’s night.

“Keep making that face and you’re going to get wrinkles,” he said.

Her eyes cut to his. “What did you do? Did you move me in my sleep?”

“No,” he lied.

“Right.” She snorted and tugged again on her end of the cuffs.

Then she saw the diary. Her diary. Eyes huge with horror, she grabbed for it. But he’d been expecting that. Quickly he passed it into his other hand and dangled it out over the side of the mattress, keeping it out of reach.

“What are you doing with that?” she screeched.

“Didn’t I tell you? I went to pick up your stuff yesterday.”

“Give it to me!” Roslyn lunged, attempting to clamber over him. He grabbed a fistful of her sweater with his cuffed hand, holding her back. Her other arm thrashed futilely about for the notebook. “Nick!”