Burned Deep (Burned 1)

My breathing was sparse, because all I had to do was inch the tiniest bit forward and our lips would touch.

My gaze dropped to his mouth. I absently nibbled my lower lip. Then raised my eyes to meet his again.

I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything—including an enormous office, the title to match, and a paycheck and budget with too many zeros.

My pulse continued to race. But my mind was absurdly clear. “We’re mixing business and … pleasure?”

His jaw clenched. “You haven’t said yes yet.”

To his offer? To whatever was causing my heart to beat wildly?

“You’d be my boss,” I pointed out.

“And what we do behind closed doors is strictly between us.”

A little

red flag waved in front of my face. “What if something goes wrong?”

I didn’t have to be specific—he was astute enough to know I was talking about sex, not the job. Though that was of concern as well. If I took him up on his offer, I wouldn’t be able to afford losing the paycheck, since I’d have to give up independent weddings and bridal shows. I’d no longer have that source of income. I’d have to start fresh, mining for brides. He had to know this was all a huge risk.

Did he care? Or was his need to draw me into this world of his too great? And … why me?

He swept a wayward curl from my cheek. His skin was warm. Soft. I sucked in a breath. And involuntarily shrank back.

Tension instantly radiated from him. “Sorry,” he murmured. He stood in a swift move. “That’s going to be a problem.”

“It just happens,” I said in sort of a floundering way. I stared up at him, my stomach twisting. “There’s nothing for you to apologize about. It’s just—” I gave a small shrug. “I get a little uncomfortable. Sometimes.”

He eyed me closely for endless seconds, obviously trying to interpret everything about me. Maybe I wasn’t normal after all. Wouldn’t most women want this sort of attention, especially from him? Particularly when they lusted after him in turn?

Yet somehow, the reality of him touching me—someone so anti-intimacy, while he clearly fought his aggressive nature—was a difficult wall to scale.

Finally tearing his gaze away, he spun around and crossed the room to the wet bar. I felt a peculiar void as he broke eye contact and gave me his back. A strange chill slithered through me. Not eerie, but … empty.

Okay, Ari, be honest. At least with yourself.

I’d liked sitting next to him, our thighs pressed together. I’d liked his fingers brushing over my cheek. I’d like the way he’d stared so intently into my eyes.

I even liked how he filled my mind just about every second of the day. There was something about him, something about us, that made me wonder if that crazy day in the bar had been fated. Had he been there to rescue me in more ways than just keeping me out of the clutches of a spiky-haired blond with a creepy tattoo, or even the good-looking, flirtatious Kyle Jenns?

Or was he someone offering things a woman such as myself shouldn’t get wrapped around the axle over? Was he a savior? Or was he detrimental to the perfectly constructed life I’d built following all the troubles I’d encountered as a kid?

I had no answers, and that scared me all the more. But eclipsing the fear was the arousal that seeped through my veins when he turned back to me and I took him in from head to toe—breathing him in, getting lost in every magnificent fiber of his being.

He returned with a glass and handed it over.

I took a long sip of scotch, then set the cocktail on the end table and said, “It’d be okay if you sat next to me.”

Joining me once more, he gave me another of his scrutinizing looks and asked, “Are you afraid of me?”

“Not in the way you might think. You’re intimidating, yes. But, it’s more like…” I didn’t really know how to explain, exactly what to say. No one had asked me that sort of question before. No one had really wanted to know why I kept my distance. And I truly wasn’t sure anyone would understand.

It’d taken me a long time to notice how I always lingered on the fringes, even when wholly present in a conversation or with my wedding planning. I had a simple theory, really. Not touching, and not being touched, led to not missing physical contact when instances of it were so few and far between.

I’d never put stock in affection. My parents weren’t of the sentimental, demonstrative variety—except when they were hurling things at a wall. Nor had the half-dozen guys I’d spent brief time with employed any sort of finesse beyond the few thrusts it took to get off.

Something else occurred to me. I had never felt the electric currents I did when Dane was close, when he looked at me, when his fingers grazed my skin.