Page 43 of The Arrogant's Redemption

And he still smells amazing.

"Uh . . . sure, no problem."

"Ten minutes tops," he says, looking at me in a way that makes me melt.

I nod, too speechless to say a single word, and as if he senses it, he walks away with a hint of a sinful smile on his lips.

LJ returns exactly when he promised, but the moment he steps into the kitchen again, dinner is the last thing on my mind.

He’s barefoot, in jeans and a black T-shirt. His narrow waist contrasts with his broad, muscular shoulders. His hair is messy and damp from the shower.

I take a mental picture, storing it away for future fantasies.

"I set the table, like you asked," I say, afraid that if I don’t speak, there will be a puddle of drool forming at my feet.

He walks slowly toward me, which only heightens my anxiety. When we’re about a foot apart, I breathe in his clean, masculine scent—a mix of soap and man.

His eyes hypnotize me, keeping me frozen in place. I’m not even sure I’m breathing.

I didn’t tell him it’s my birthday, because from what little I know about him, I think he’d be embarrassed for not having a gift. I don’t want anything but him. If he gave me something, I’d feel even more out of place, as if the massive social gap between us wasn’t already enough.

However, all my doubts vanish the moment he reaches out to me. It feels symbolic—proof to both of us that I’m stepping into this willingly.

Does LJ think I don’t want to be here? That he’s taking advantage of me because I’m younger?

I decide to make it clear. Instead of taking his hand, I wrap my arms around his neck and, standing on tiptoe, kiss his jaw. "I’m not fragile, and I’m not afraid of you. I came because I wanted to. As long as we’re honest with each other, I’ll be fine. I just can’t stand lies."

"I don’t lie."

"Never?"

"Never."

I sigh and give in when his hand pulls me close.

I surrender to the kiss like never before. I don’t want to resist this feeling anymore—I want to make this the best birthday of my life.

Lazarus

Her nipples are so hard they’re practically piercing through the light fabric of her dress, and even though I promised myself I’d take it slow, I can’t resist brushing my thumb over one of them, circling gently. Alexis reacts with such raw intensity that my restrained desire turns visceral.

I draw in a sharp breath—sharper than I’ve ever needed—and step back, though I don’t let her go.

I kiss her forehead, then press a softer kiss to her lips. But when she parts them, silently begging for more, I force myself to say, "We have dinner waiting."

"I'm not hungry."

I chuckle, and Alexis opens her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, and she clearly feels embarrassed—but she doesn’t pull away.

"Is there a set script for tonight?" she asks.

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’ve never been with someone so inexperienced. I’m trying to be a gentleman."

She looks up at me, and I can see the storm in her eyes. But there’s something else there too—confusion—before she finally nods. "Dinner first sounds like a good idea."

Half an hour later, as we eat, despite my seemingly relaxed demeanor, every one of my instincts is attuned to her. The smallest movement—like lifting her fork to her mouth—completely captures my attention. It’s both irritating and electrifying. I’ve never met anyone who could steal my focus like this.

Instability doesn’t sit well in my world. Beneath the polished layer my last name provides as a legacy, there’s an animalistic instinct waiting to surface—and I keep it on a tight leash, always.

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