Page 16 of Beg Me Angel

What the hell is wrong with me?

I didn't want to feel anything, not right then.How the hell could I be feeling like this?

I wasn't ready to let my body ignite for someone I didn't know while my world was stuck in this weird limbo I was still trying to figure out.

But my mind wandered, ignoring the past questions and reaching for the uncertainty of the man in front of me, reaching for what it craved and desired in the moment. I wanted to be touched, I wanted to be wrapped in the arms of someone who made me feel safe.

And for some unknown reason he gave me that. I couldn't explain why, maybe it was just his confidence, maybe it was how he showed a meek concern for me.

Maybe it's because he had cared for me when he didn't have to and the fact he had taken me in and given me shelter when he could have just left me to die.

Pax had a touch that was harsh and hands that were rugged, forged from manual labor and hard work. Every muscle that rolled and etched his body like hard stone was earned. It was easy for me to see.

You don't live off the grid this way if you can't handle the work that comes along with it.

There was a thick scar on his right forearm, one that he tried to cover up with bold black ink. But the light from the fire carved out the deep crevasse, highlighting it in a frame.

I wanted to know how he got it. Had he done it here, building his hidden treasure in the woods?

How long had he lived here?

Does he live alone?

Does he have a wife?

Swallowing hard, I tried to get my thoughts in order and ignore the small flame igniting between my thighs. Pressing my legs tighter together, I rubbed my palms against the outside of my hips. “How long have you lived here?” I asked, lifting up the bowl to drink the last bit of soup off the bottom.

Shifting in his chair, he twined his fingers together and tapped his thumbs. “Well, it took me two years to build this place and I've lived here for four. But all that time was worth it to make it perfect.”

My lids expanded, resting the bowl back down. “Wow, you seriously built this place yourself?”

Nodding yes, his face flushed with pride over his creation. “I did.” Letting his eyes drift around the room, he smiled at his accomplishment.

There was something about the idea of knowing that he had built this home with his own two hands that turned me on. A tingle swept through my body, forcing my muscles to twitch just below the surface.

I wasn't sure why it was so hot to imagine him dragging long beams of wood, sawing, hammering. . . But it made my sex heat to think of him sweating and dripping with a manly glow.

It was a turn-on and I had no way to stop the heat from coalescing between my thighs.

In college, all the guys—or boys, I should say—had their heads shoved so far in the books that not one of them would lift a finger to do anything for themselves.

But Pax, he was a real man. A man built off pure brute force, willing to do the work to reap the reward.

Fiddling with the handle of the spoon, I tapped it against the bottom of the bowl. “And you live here alone?” The question rolled off my tongue slowly, my voice scratchy and unsure. I wasn't asking just to make conversation, I was asking for myself.

I had to know if he was all by himself or if I should be expecting someone else to come walking through that door.

“Mm hmm, it's just me and the trees.” Smiling, Pax reached out and my heart stopped briefly as his fingers stretched in my direction. I waited for him to touch me again, to brush my skin with those rough, but gentle hands.

Someplace deep inside my soul I wanted to feel him against me, around me. . .In me.Holding my breath, my skin prickled with anticipation as his fingers came closer, then curled around the bowl, lifting it off the table.

“You want some more?” he asked, coddling the bowl in one of his bear-sized palms.

I sat still, just staring at him for a long second. I couldn't get my head to think straight as the prospect of his touch fizzled away to just a simple thought.

“No, I'm good.” I was grateful he had found me, I was grateful he wanted to feed me and make sure I was okay. But he had done enough. What I needed wasn't more water or food; what I needed, he wasn't ready to do.

And by the feel of my body and weight of my muscles, I wasn't either.

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