Page 37 of Owned In Misty Mountain

—-

The car ride is quiet.

I glance at him. His big hands gripping the wheel. That black thermal pulled tight across his broad chest. His cut jaw still tense.

“You look like you’re trying not to kidnap me again,” I say softly.

His mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“No?”

He glances at me. “I’d call it bringing you home.”

I smile.

“Then let’s stop by my place.”

He tenses.

“To get a bag,” I add. “Unless you plan to dress me in oversized flannels and nothing else.”

He exhales. “Not a bad plan.”

I laugh.

—-

Mike walks me to my apartment. I grab clothes, a charger, my lotion, my favorite blanket. Toiletries.

When I pass him on the way out, his gaze drops.

Takes me in, head to toe.

Sweatpants. Hoodie. Messy bun.

He doesn’t touch me.

But he looks like he wants to devour me…

—-

Back at his place, Mike doesn’t push.

He helps me out of my coat. Makes me tea. Feeds me eggs and toast like I’m recovering from an illness.

When I lick a smear of butter off my lip, his fork pauses mid-air. Our gazes lock with heat, hunger, need.

“Eat,” I whisper. “Then I’m yours.”

He swallows hard.

I finish my plate.

—-

Mike watches me finish the last bite like he’s barely holding himself together.

I set my fork down and look at him. Really look.

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