Page 29 of Captain's Claim

And just like that, the moment is shattered.

We jerk apart, Sophia's lips still parted, her eyes wide and stunned, blown-out with something that I refuse to call lust.

A festival vendor stands at the mouth of the alleyway, completely oblivious to thecrimeshe's just committed. She's balancing a cart of caramel-dipped apples and grinning at us like we're just some happy couple getting into the holiday spirit.

"No, tha-"

"Yeah, sure. Why not." Sophia turns to the vendor and smiles.

Of course.

I'm just standing here, adjusting the bulge in my pants and still reeling from the taste of her, but according to her, that's as good a time as any to get fucking dessert.

Because she's Sophia Hart.

And she can never let me have the last fucking word.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, trying to swallow down the frustration curling tight and hot in my gut.

If I had even half a second more, I would’ve had her whimpering my name against that wall. Instead? She’s ordering a fucking caramel apple.

I think I’m going to die.

Sophie clears her throat, still looking dazed despite the stupid apple in her hand. "W-we, uh… we should-"

"Yeah," I grunt. "We should get back to the festival."

Chapter Eight

Sophia

Imight actually be concussed. That’s the only explanation.

My mind feels completely scrambled. My pulse is racing wildly like it wants to burst through my chest. And my mouth? Very much tingling, thank you for asking.

I stare straight ahead, barely seeing the festival lights, the bustling crowd, or the snow-dusted market stalls.

All I see ishim.

Blake Maddox just kissed me.

No, actually. Hedevouredme. Pressed me up against a wall, stole every logical thought from my head, and left me with a one-way ticket to the "What the fuck just happened?" Olympics.

And I… didn't hate it.

Which is why I do the only reasonable thing a woman in my position can do. I take an aggressive bite of my caramel apple. Sugar helps with head spins, right?

Wrong.

The sweetness does nothing to drown out the lingering taste of him. The heat, the rough scrape of his stubble against my jaw, the way he-

Nope. Nope, nope, NOPE.

I punt the apple into the nearest trash bin and power-walk in the opposite direction like I’m fleeing a crime scene. Blake is quick to follow and soon the festival hums around us again, the twinkling lights, the smell of delicious food, the snow…

Couples wander between stalls, laughing, bundled up in oversized scarves, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band plays a cheerful, jazzy tune.

Meanwhile, Blake and I?

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