Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

The walk to the car is awkward, neither of us knowing what to say. We get inside and Mitch starts the engine. Just as I’m about to broach the subject of the kiss in the club, he breaks the silence.

“I need to get a few things from my place, so we’re going to swing by there first if it’s okay with you.”

I have to blink a few times to make sense of his random comment. “Sure.”

Mitch nods and continues staring out the front window. He drums on the steering wheel, his rigid body language screaming discomfort like a blinking neon sign. I jam my hand in

my pocket, grasping my stone.

We pull into the garage at Mitch’s townhouse. With the engine off, the silence becomes a thousand times more uncomfortable than it was during the drive. My solution to break the tension would be to fist the front of Mitch’s shirt and yank him over the console so I can attack his mouth.

The slamming of a car door gets me moving. Apparently, Mitch’s solution is to go inside the house. I follow Mitch up the stairs to his kitchen and run smack into his delectable backside when he stops short on the top step.

I wobble, nearly tumbling backwards down the flight of stairs. Scrabbling, I reach out and grab onto Mitch’s firm bicep to break my fall. He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me forward, holding me up so I don’t go tumbling down ass first.

“What the hell?” I ask, holding a hand over my heart, which is hammering in my chest from my near accident.

“Shhhhh,” Mitch looks over his shoulder and shakes his head. He mouths the words, ‘break-in’.

My hand tightens around him and a spike of fear stabs at my throat. Is the burglar still here? Are we in danger? Mitch lets go of me to bend down and hike up one leg of his way-too-tight jeans. He produces a small handgun from a battered combat boot.

“Christ, Mitch,” I whisper, still clinging to his arm like a pathetic damsel in distress. But damn that was hot. Danger or not, a man with weapons hidden on his body is a total turn on.

“Shhhhh,” he repeats.

Mitch steps into the kitchen, making no move to shake off my hand. In fact, when he pulls forward, my hand slides down his arm into his palm where he wraps his fingers around it. If my heart beats any faster I’m going to drop dead.

I’m standing in the middle of a terrifying break-in, and I’m getting giddy because a hot guy is holding my hand. There are not enough drinks in the world to deal with this.

When I step out of the stairwell and glance around, I’m astonished. Mitch’s kitchen has been trashed. Every cabinet is open, dishes broken and the pieces littering the countertops and floor.

“Shuffle your feet,” he whispers. “So the glass doesn’t crunch.”

I squeeze his hand so he knows I understand. Carefully, we make our way to the living room. The damage is similar. The television is smashed, the couch cushions sliced open and scattered. A quick sweep of the upstairs brings similar results. Everything is ruined, with no sign of the suspect.

“Fuck!” Mitch shouts once he deems the house clear. “Fuck!” He lets go of my hand, sheaths his gun, and kicks his mattress, which is lying on its side with the stuffing pulled out.

I can’t form any words. This is too much to take in. It’s scary as hell and Mitch’s violent fury is equally intimidating.

“Come on. I need to check my computers,” he snaps.

“Jesus, Mitch. Who do you think did—?”

“Really, Gavin?” He shoots me a look that makes me feel like an idiot. “Who the fuck do you think did this?”

My earlier anger comes roaring back. “Don’t yell at me, Mitch! I didn’t ask for this, all right? None of it! So if you’re going to be a bitch, you can fuck off!”

Mitch spins around, his eyes wild, his mouth pulled up in a sneer. I watch as those damn eyes flick down to my mouth before coming back up to meet my gaze.

Desire sizzles down my spine like an exposed electrical wire. The memory of his mouth on mine—his taste, his smell, the brush of his stubble across my chin–burns fresh in my mind. Raw testosterone clouds the air so thick I can almost feel it. At the same time I realize that I’m getting turned on in the middle of a crime scene, Mitch steps back.

“I’ll check my computers, then we need to leave. He could still be around outside watching,” Mitch states calmly.

I don’t bother responding. I don’t know if I can respond. Right now, I’m trying my damndest to talk my half-hard cock into backing down. Plus, we’re both too edgy and combustible. Saying the wrong thing would be like tossing a lit match into a pool of gasoline.

Mitch approaches a door that has a stainless steel panel next to it. He presses his thumb to a small screen and the door opens with a hiss.

“Stay with me,” he insists.