Page 68 of Scarlet Angel

“As long as our needs align, I believe I can trust you.”

“Quid pro quo. Can I trust you?”

“Yes.” My weak response reveals the truth. I shouldn’t have drugged him.

“Planning to drug me again, or did you learn everything you need to know?”

“I…won’t do it again.”Unless I need to.

“But you still have questions?”

“I thought of other things I want to know.”

“Why didn’t you ask them?”

Because my body’s reaction surprised me. I wanted you.

“Did you kiss me? Or is that an apparition?”

“It happened.”

My mouth is dry. I wet my lips, and it’s as if they are once again touching his. When our lips touched, I felt it through my core, and my hips involuntarily rocked against him as my center clenched.

“Here’s the thing, love, anytime you want to use my body, I’m game. There’s no need to drug me.”

“Does your head still hurt?”

“No. I took the aspirin someone left beside the chair.”

He sets the handgun, my handgun, the one he must have somehow known I keep beneath my pillow, on the side table, and flicks on the lamp.

“I’m sorry I drugged you.”

“Are you?” His brow crinkles. His lips… I swallow. It’s amusement. I swear that’s what I see.

“No.” I slink back, awaiting a blow. But he remains seated. Distant. “I needed to know.”

“Now you do. And I meant what I said. Anytime you want to use my body, I’m game.”

It’s too dark to see his eyes; I can only make out his shape. The rolled sleeves on his arms. His unbuttoned shirt. The watch is missing from his forearm, as if he began undressing for bed and stopped.

My nipples tease the thin fabric of my nightgown. Need and desire strum every delicate nerve ending.

My heart palpitates in my chest. Being with a man is my last hurdle. It’s one I haven’t attempted, in the interest of self-care. But I want him. There’s no denying the physical urge. And I do not shrink from fear.

“How about now? Are you game?”

He’s silent. One second. Two.

I shouldn’t have said anything.

“You want me? Right now?”

The chair creaks, and he rises.

“You’re not teasing, are you, love?”

That word. It’s so British. One he bestows on all, yet my insides flutter every time he says it. It’s why I hate it.

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