Page 39 of Must Have Been Love

I open my mouth to argue with him, but all that comes out is a soft sigh. I’m tired, I’m embarrassed. And the energy to fight him has disappeared.

Hudson keeps a hold of my wrist as he leads me through a door marked ‘private - authorized persons only’, then walks me down an empty and dully-lit corridor toward a heavy oak door at the end. He punches in a code and pushes it open, then pulls me inside, flicking the light switch with his free hand.

Then the door slams closed behind me and I’m completely alone with this man.

He’s so damn tall I have to incline my head to look up at him. And when I do, all I see is his scowl. He’s staring down at me like he hates me.

Of course I stare back. For a moment there’s silence – save for the hot thud of my pulse as it rushes through my ears.

I clench my thigh muscles, trying to ignore the way my whole body needs him.

“We have a little problem,” he finally says, breaking the silence.

I blink. “We do?”

His gaze dips to my dress, where it’s pushing my chest up so high I can practically feel my breasts grazing my throat. Then pulls it up to look at my lips.

I part them, letting out a soft breath. This man is so overwhelming it’s hard to breathe.

“What kind of problem?” I ask him.

“I think you know.”

“Do I?” I feign innocence.

He won’t stop looking at me. His body is only a breath away from mine. Somehow I’ve managed to back up so my back is against the door.

There’s nowhere to run. And I’m not sure I want to.

Then he closes the gap between us, his hard, muscled body pressing against mine.

His fingers graze the underside of my chin, lifting my head up.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low.

It takes me a minute to remember my spectacular fall. “Yes.” I nod. “No permanent damage.” Then I give him a weak smile. “Nothing more than there already was.”

He drops his head like he’s relieved, which is quite frankly boggling. His brow presses against mine and I can feel the warmth of his breath as he exhales. Can smell the edge of whiskey tracing it.

“What kind of problem do we have?” I whisper to him. My heart is slamming against my chest at his nearness. There’s a steady thrum of appreciation between my thighs at his proximity. At the smell of him.

The damn masculine energy that exudes from him.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at me, his eyes even narrower, like he’s sizing me up. His fingers are still under my chin, his thumb grazing my jaw.

And I realize exactly what problem he’s talking about. I can feel it pumping through my veins.

“You don’t want this,” I tell him. “I’m so not your type.”

“What is my type?” he asks.

“Princess Di.”

The corner of his lips quirk. “The original or the fake one?”

“The one who stares at you like she wants to eat you for breakfast. The one who speaks properly, who looks like she’s a walking wet dream of a bank balance.” He reaches down to trace my clavicle – from the center of my chest to my shoulder – and I swear I’ve never been so turned on before in my whole life.

“She’s a good girl,” I whisper. “She won’t embarrass you, or dress wrong, or get a piercing in her lip or a tattoo on her hip.”

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