Stealing His Heart (Shillings Agency 2)

“Don’t smile. You might appear to be human,” she said, adding the proper amount of horror to her voice. “And what if something cracked?”

The almost-smile faded. He frowned at her and moved away. As he went around the back of the car, he popped the trunk open with his key fob. He walked as if he didn’t have a care in the world—while she wanted to explode with want every time he touched her. Not. Fair.

She headed toward the door, studying it instead of him. His home was a two-story brick colonial. Blue shutters framed all of the windows, with a matching blue front door. A wooden swing hung on the front porch, next to a rosebush. It was so…homey. Very…innocuous.

And way too nicely done for a bachelor.

She froze halfway up the stone path. “Did you decorate this yourself?”

He crashed into her, his hard body sending her reeling. Without much effort, he caught her while still managing to hold on to her bags. Even through the bulky sweatshirt, his touch burned. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because this”—she gestured to the house—“looks way too pretty for a man to have done all by himself.”

His lips tilted up a tiny bit more, almost becoming a real smile, and he stepped closer, into her personal space. He smelled like cologne and the outdoors. And man. Pure, sexy man. “I assure you, I did it all on my own without any feminine help. The only woman I need in my life is Christine.”

“Oh.” An idea formed in her mind, a way to see if he really was as uptight as he seemed to be, and she pounced on it. She gave him a once-over and ducked her head to hide the grin trying to escape. His gaze remained latched on her mouth. It was about time she affected him, because God knew he was driving her insane. “I get it.”

He lowered his head, but froze at her words, nostrils flared. “Get what?”

“You’re gay.” She smiled at him and patted his cheek. His stubble scratched her palm, and she ached to rub against him again. To get to know the feel of his whiskers on her bare skin. “It all makes total sense now.”

She knew he wasn’t gay, of course, but she couldn’t resist teasing him.

“What the—?” He stepped closer, letting his erection brush against her ass. “Do I feel like I’m gay to you?”

Her stomach clenched, and she curled her fingers into fists. “You ran away from me before we had sex, and you still haven’t kissed me, so…?”

“So that’s why you said that. It was a ploy to get your way. Those games won’t work on me.” He moved away from her. “When I kiss you, it’ll be on my terms. Not yours. And not because you goad me into it by poking at me like a child with a stick. I don’t reward that behavior.”

She stiffened. “Reward?”

Why didn’t she remember him being so damned bossy when they were kids? Now he was annoying as hell, but she couldn’t help but wonder: if he was this domineering out of bed…how strong would he be in it?

Would he hold her down and screw her until she couldn’t move, let alone think?

Just the thought of him doing dirty things while holding her down beneath him dampened her panties. She wanted to find out what he meant firsthand, damn it. But she’d make him bend to her will first. He thought he could control her. He was wrong.

She shook off the desire and straightened her spine.

As he started up the walkway without answering her, she took in every detail. This was the type of place she would want to live in, if her life were different. The type of house that screamed of love and family game nights. She’d bet he had a fireplace inside, the perfect companion for snuggling under a blanket on cold winter nights.

“In all seriousness, though, this is a really nice place.”

He stopped beside her and rubbed the back of his neck, his forehead wrinkled as he stared at his home. “Thanks.”

“I’m surprised you’re not in a fashionable condo or something, though.” She gestured to the house. “A bachelor pad with strobe lights and a hot tub. Red velvet comforters. Champagne fountains

.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “When I was with my foster father, this is the type of house I envisioned having. One like Christine and I grew up in before…”

“I remember,” she said softly.

“Anyway, once I had enough saved, I went about buying a fixer-upper and turning it into mine.” He glanced at his home. “This is it.”

In a vivid rush of memories, she remembered a night long ago, when he’d come over with a black eye. His foster father had gotten drunk and decided he needed a punching bag. Jake had done nicely. And Jake had accepted his fate without a fight because if he was hitting Jake, he wasn’t hitting any of the younger kids his foster father had taken on for the cash.

Back then, they had sat on her balcony, him with a bag of peas on his injury. She’d begged him to tell Christine the truth. He’d refused. That night, he had slept over at her house. She’d sneaked him in after her grandmother fell asleep.