Page 7 of Beyond Question

It’s early May and, though our days are warming up nicely, it is still cool in the late afternoon, but my body seems to have missed that memo. My skin is flushed with heat, slightly damp, and undoubtedly rosy. I’m not sure if it’s the rosé that has me breathless—or that man’s unwavering, heated stare.

I slip inside the house and bolt for the downstairs bathroom, shaking my head because I know exactly what has me so flustered—and it isn’t the goddamn wine.

As soon as I am locked away in the bathroom, I turn on the cold water and wash my hands, then hold my wrists under the flow, allowing the cold water to cool my veins. I must’ve had too much to drink. I mean, to have this visceral reaction to a few suggestive looks and not-so-subtle gestures? It’ssilly.

And now that I’m alone, with only my reflection to answer to, the blushing damsel looking back at me in the mirror should be ashamed of herself. The flush in my cheeks is quickly replaced with embarrassment and shame. “You’re ridiculous,” I tell her.

The man is a known bachelor. A playboy, I’m sure. He knows the power of that smile and his lone dimple—and how to wield them to get the desired response. When armed with those two things, combined with his undeniable charm? I have no doubt that Travis Wilder can reduce a woman to a wordless jumble of heat and desire. It’s only natural that I’ve had this reaction to him. I am but a mere human woman, after all.

“Good grief,” I whisper as I turn off the water, then dry my hands on a fluffy white towel.

Shaking my head, I run my hands through my hair, then sweep the long, silver strands up into a loose bun. The natural brown and gray of my roots has begun to show; it’s time for a hair appointment to update the silver. When I decided to embrace my grays, I went all in and turned the whole head silver.

Even with my hair off my neck, I’m still too heated. Maybe itisthe wine.

With a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders. “No more wine. And no more men,” I tell myself. “Not even handsome men with deadly dimples.” When I open the door, I collide with a firm, broad chest, gasping as a strong arm snakes around my waist to keep me from stumbling.

I don’t even have to look up to know it’s Travis because my body is lit up all over again, reacting to his closeness, his heat, the woodsy scent of him I’ve burned into memory all afternoon.

A voice in my head, though soft and distant, urges me to run, but as he tightens his hold and pulls me even closer, I can’t find it in me to move.

His body is so hard against mine, long and lean, andfirm.

My hands flex against his chest—

And then my eyes widen because my hands are pressed against his chest, and it feels so good to touch him I have to bite back a groan. I struggle against the desire to flex my hands into his pecs again.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the words trailing off as I look up into those pale green eyes and register the unmistakable heat of his gaze.

“Don’t be.” Travis focuses on my mouth, and when he licks his lips, then pulls the bottom one between his teeth as he fights that sexy smirk, I suck in an audible breath because I canfeelthat drag of his teeth between my legs.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, way too breathlessly.And what are you doing to me?I want to scream.

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Same as you, I imagine.”

Oh? He’s come to chastise his poor reflection as well?

With one arm wrapped tightly around my waist and holding me firmly against his body, he brings the other hand up to trail his thumb down my exposed neck, from my earlobe to my collarbone, his pale green eyes following that line until he settles his thumb into the notch in the center of my throat, his hand stretched out over the curve between my neck and shoulder.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Goosebumps break out over my flesh, and a shiver tremors through my body. He feels it, of course, what with how closely we’re pressed together, and his lips twitch on another barely restrained cocksure smile.

When he finally brings his eyes back up to mine, they’re darker, hooded.

And his intent is clear.

“You look good with your hair up,” he murmurs. “You look good with it down, too.” After a brief pause, his gaze flicking all over my face, he whispers, almost to himself, “I think I just like the way you look.”

My heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I’ve remembered how to breathe, but now each breath is shallow and audible.

My hands tense against his chest.

I swallow hard, and his eyes follow the motion in my throat.

Then he licks his lips.

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