Page 20 of Kidnapped Plus-Size Mate

“It’s real,” he says in a flat tone.

“Do you have proof?” I quip with a raised brow. Here, this man claims that dragons are real, while I’ve been visited by a dragon in my dreams.

Is it just a coincidence?

“I have solid proof,” he states with a firm nod. “But it’s not proof I can give you now.”

“Then I don’t believe you,” I retort with a huff.

“You don’t have to,” he chuckles. “Not right now, anyway. Besides, I was just trying to get your number this morning.”

Oh.

Oh!

“So, they aren’t real, then?” I giggle nervously, partly relieved because it isn’t true. But the question of his motives remains, and I can’t wrap my head around it.

He chuckles again as he waves our waiter over. “Like I said, I was only trying to get your number, Camilla.”

I gulp on the twist of nerves lifting to the top of my throat as Sterling pays for dinner, and we make to leave the restaurant.

My heart beats uncontrollably in my chest as we enter the limo, the few brisk brushes of his hand against mine as he helps me, sending shockwaves of arousal through my core.

I’ve never been so attracted to any man in my life, and I’ve never felt it being reciprocated to me. I see it in his eyes when he closes the door behind me, a glint of primal hunger evident in the bright glow of the golden specks. For a split second, time stands still, until he enters through the other side and sits comfortably on the seat.

Through my periphery, I notice the way his thighs splay out, the bulge of prominent thigh muscles pulling taut against the black pants. Just a little further, and I notice another very eminent bulge between his muscular thighs.

Gulp…

I quickly turn my face to the dark-tinted window as the buildings we pass become a blur. Or maybe it’s just my mind working overtime to distract me from the sinful thoughts that enter with intentions cruel enough to have heat pooling between my legs.

It doesn’t help that silence surrounds us now, leaving me to hear the raging cries of my womanhood that become intoxicated by the musk notes of his cologne. The scent is subtle but commanding enough to dominate my senses and keep me pressing my thighs together in an attempt not to moan out loud.

When the limo rolls to a stop outside my apartment building, I let out the breath I’d been holding in as soon as Sterling steps out from his side. But the fresh air is only a momentary privilege when he opens my door and offers out a hand.

Even with the soft glow of the moon‘s rays filtering the streets and adding to the dim street lights, I notice how his veins form a map on his hand and disappear beneath the sleeves of his white shirt and black jacket. My mind wanders to a space I hoped it wouldn’t—wondering what the rest of that arm would look like wrapped around my—

“Thank you for tonight, Camilla,” Sterling says when I’ve finally grown enough courage to take his hand and step out.

“I had a great time,” I offer, mentally berating myself for my formal tone. This is why I’ve always chosen to remain indoors.

I’m hopeless when it comes to socializing.

With a nervous half-smile, I gently slip my hand out from his and step onto the pavement. But in an attempt to quiet my mind from all the shouting about my failed attempt to flirt withthe handsome man, I lose my footing. My ankle caves in, and I shriek out in horror when I anticipate falling flat on my face.

“Oh, no!” I shut my eyelids and brace my palms out in preparation for the impact with cement.

Instead of the cold, hard floor, my palms meet the hot, firm surface of muscle.

I open my eyes then, realizing that the twist of limbs wasn’t my fall, but my savior nimbly grabbing me and turning me to him. His face is only a few inches from mine as he stares down at me with penetrating green eyes of concern and relief amalgamated in the swirls of gold specks only visible up close. Most of the advantage he has over me with his height is lost from the difference between the road and the pavement, and for the first time, he’sthisclose.

So close, that I can smell the minty notes rolling off his breath. My eyes flicker to his lips, then back to his eyes where my doe-ish reflection is clear as day in the earthly canvas.

“Are you always tripping over yourself?” he asks almost angrily, but it’s not anger I see in his eyes. Instead, it’s something more primal than anger, like he’s concerned about my clumsiness.

All I can do is nod tentatively, unable to respond coherently to his question. My mind is too inebriated by his closeness and the way his strong hands grip my arms.

“You’re gonna have to be more careful…” he rasps, drawing a dangerous inch closer. I can barely breathe—not because I don’t want to, but because his closeness just stole the air from my lungs.

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