‘At my finger?’
His chest concaves on an audible drag of breath, and his eyes scan my face, searching for . . . I don’t know what. He looks a little confused, his eyes questioning. ‘What else would I want to look at, princess?’
My lips purse, my eyes narrow, and I slowly lift my towel-wrapped hand up to him. ‘Be gentle,’ I warn.
‘I like rough and dirty,’ he murmurs quietly, almost questioningly, like he’s reminding himself. Telling himself.
There’s only one thing I should say to that, only one thing that comes naturally. ‘Don’t be a twat.’ My insult breezes past my lips, and he gives me a strained smile.
Then, gingerly, he takes my hand, swallowing as he slowly unravels the material while I tense and hiss. ‘Be a brave girl,’ he teases, flicking his eyes up to me every few seconds. I couldn’t possibly retaliate. I’m too busy holding my breath and sweating, and not because of my injured finger. He’s so close. Touching me. ‘Close your eyes,’ he murmurs. ‘You won’t feel a thing.’
I do as I’m told, happy to block out the sight of him. He’s so gentle with me, each touch and movement carried out with the utmost care, making the whole process almost pain-free. But the heat of his skin on mine . . .
I gulp repeatedly, taking deep breaths and ignoring flashbacks of his naked chest. But it’s hard to push something away when your eyes and mind take such delight in seeing and thinking about it. Damn me. He’s fucking Alexa, and probably Paula too. He isn’t adding me to his list. Becker Hunt is my boss, and above everything else, I need to remember that. I also need to remember everything Mrs Potts and Mr H have said. Falling for his relentless tactics would be monumentally stupid. It would be the beginning of the end for me at the Hunt Corporation. I must get over this silly crush.
It’s all I can do. I love it here. I love all of the history, the . . . My thoughts are interrupted when my skin begins to tingle, and my sense of smell is bombarded by a familiar scent. His scent. Manly. Clean with a touch of citrus. It’s strong. He’s close. And then his hot breath clashes with my cheeks. My eyes flutter open, finding him as close as can be without touching, his perfect hazel eyes perfectly clear behind his glasses. He’s leaning forward, arms braced on either side of me. Our eyes hold.
‘It’s superficial,’ he whispers, taking my hand and holding it gently. ‘You’ll live.’
‘I’m terrible with blood.’ I can think of nothing else to say.
He nods in understanding, and for some unknown reason, it means something. He was gentle with me, when he could have been a prick and left me to suffer alone. But he didn’t. He fixed me.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘When I was three, my dad sliced his finger on a blade when he was repairing a clock. He went through eighty per cent of his thumb.’
He grimaces. ‘That’s gross.’
‘Really gross. I thought he was going to die. The sight of blood makes me woozy.’
Becker chuckles a little. ‘Then it’s a good job I was here to save you.’
‘Was it?’ I’m not so sure. I don’t like nice Becker. I don’t know what to do with him.
‘Yes, but this isn’t the kind of red I wanted to see,’ he says quietly, his face suddenly completely serious as he holds my hand in the air. My cheeks burn because of that statement, undoubtedly giving me away. I expect my red cheeks aren’t the kind of red he wanted to see, either. At least, not the cheeks on my face.
He applies a light pressure to my hand, and I look down to see a small plaster covering the tip of my finger. That’s it? I should feel stupid, but I don’t. I can’t feel anything beyond the conflicting thoughts running rampant in my mind. ‘Thank you.’
‘Welcome.’ His reply is so soft. Comfortingly soft, and I cast my eyes back to his. I’m immediately hauled into their fiery depths. Passion, promise, and pleasure are all pouring from them. My body is singing. Alive. He inches his body forward a tiny bit, like he’s testing me, trying to determine whether I’ll retreat or accept him. I do neither. I remain a statue, keeping my eyes on his. He comes forward a little more, and I swallow hard when I feel his front meet my knees. His arm appears in my peripheral vision, his hand reaching towards my hair.
All the muscles in my body lock down. Oh God.
It takes everything in me not to move when I feel his finger slip delicately between the strands. He watches my hair as he plays with it. I can do no more than sit before him and accept his caress. This is wrong. This is so off limits. We both know it, and not only because he’s my boss. He had another woman in his bed last night. I know what kind of man Becker Hunt is. I know he needs to be avoided. I know—