Page 17 of Moth to a Flame

“Good girl.” He doesn’t hesitate before he releases me. Doesn’t grope me this one last time.

I’m free.

“What the hell was that?” For some inexplicable reason, my gun remains concealed. “Who are you?”

“Landon. Nice to meet you, friend.” His smirk is annoying. Annoyingly beautiful. I keep my hand where it is, refusing to shake his. I don’t crave it. Impossible. “You?”

In some of the books I read and the ones Dad writes, this is the moment the badass heroine pulls out her gun and empties it on her attacker. Gray matter dribbles out of his head. Blood splatters paint the collar of his shirt red.

I should be able to see the street behind him through the hole I’ll make in his face.

I don’t do it.

No matter how huge he is, how he handled me with so much ease, nothing about him gives off rapist vibes.

It could be a mistake, giving him my name. I do it anyway. “Regan.”

“Regan. Hear me out.”

But I’m not done. He did touch me without my consent.

“No, you hear me out.” I take a step closer. I really shouldn’t stab a finger at his chest. His solid, made-of-stone chest. “You didn’t answer my question. What the hell was that?”

“Thatas in…” The nerve on this man. He raises an eyebrow at me, a pale, blond, no, platinum-blond eyebrow. I haven’t noticed the unique color until this moment.

Like I haven’t noticed the strands of the same platinum-blond hair peeking beneath his hat.

Doesn’t matter.

“As in grabbing me.”

Woof!

I lower my voice into a harsh whisper. For Mojo’s sake. And to stop this man from smirking at me.

“As in, slapping your hand on my mouth.”

Your manly hand that smelled of pure sin. That felt like the hottest gag on the planet.

Regan, focus!

These thoughts will be the end of me. They’re a culmination of twenty-five years of never being intimate with a boy or a man in a good way. It’s a balloon that Landon is about to pop.

The look he’s giving me. The man can’t wait until I burst.

“That’s a crime.” I stab at his chest again, then drop my finger. “You could go to jail for that.”

“Did you suffer?” His hand rises, his fingers a mere inch from my cheek.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question, Regan.” He darts his tongue out, licking his lips as if my name is food and he loves the taste. Perv. Hot, infuriating perv. “Did. You. Suffer?”

“No.” The answer comes out of me before I’ve realized I said it. “Don’t do that again, though.”

I’m angry and I’m calm. Too calm. This man disarms me, and I’m not scared of him. The opposite. He makes it easy to confront him.

Wow.

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