Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

I closed my eyes when, without warning, he placed the sweater on my head, pulled it down.

I blinked, strands of hair falling on my face, my glasses fogging up. His mouth twitched into a hesitant smile.

I saw his throat working. In a husky voice, he asked, “Can I touch you?”

There was that same need I’d heard from him the other night. But there was no regret, no hesitation in him letting me know his intentions. He wanted me to know exactly what he wanted.

He wanted me.

No apologies.

I nodded.

He brushed my hair to the side—fingers stroking, sliding softly—and tucked it behind my ear. I trembled as my skin absorbed the warmth from the pads of his fingers.

“Right arm.” His voice was rough.

I pushed my right arm into the sleeve.

Normally, I would protest at being taken care of like this, but with him, in this moment, I craved the intimacy.

“Left.”

His sweater drowned me. It was three times my size, at least. It was warm, and it smelled…blue. Blue. I couldn’t help associating the color to his scent—it was fresh, sweet, cool ocean air. I wanted to pack his fragrance and eat it like candy if I could. I wanted to savor it bit by bit. It was perfect.

“Are you warming up?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

We stared at each other for a moment, the air thick with tension. His gaze was intense on my face, watching my every reaction.

Then he moved back.

“If you’re trying to get out of this deal by freezing me to death”—he whispered the words, but the challenge, I realized, was there—“you’re going to have to come up with something more creative. This”—he swept a hand at the window—“is child’s play. You’re only going to get yourself sick.”

What?

“You’re not getting out of this deal,” he continued. His jaw was hard, his eyes glittering with a dare.

I was so shocked by the words coming out of his mouth that mine hung open. He thought I deliberately made it cold inside the car to get out of the deal.

“Unless your word means nothing to you,” he finished.

He meant my principles.

Where did this guy come from? How was it so easy for him to unearth the perfect words to get the perfect response he wanted from me? To find my weakness, to use it without shame, to goad me, to get what he wanted…

And why was I playing in his web? I had to find his weakness and use that against him to level the field. Or turn the tables on him.

I’ll find his weakness. If it’s the last thing I do.

My nostrils flared. “Listen up, buddy—”

“You called me babe the other night,” he interrupted.

“—if you think… What?”

“I said you called me—”