Page 141 of Branded
His eyes were pools of deep blue ocean water, hiding mysteries and secrets and a man who was as scary as he was interesting. I wanted to know all of those depths, ferret out the enigma that was beneath. I wanted to heal the breach in him, to make him understand that not all women were bad, but I wasn’t going to do it.
Because I didn’t want it enough to reveal my own secrets in the process.
And to have an actual relationship built on trust and mutual respect and love, sharing secrets was kind of par for the course—or puck for the net, or whatever.
“You need to go,” I whispered when the silence between us had stretched long enough so that I knew he wasn’t going to answer.
“You dizzy?” he asked instead of moving, his warm hands still on my arms.
A beat. “No.”
His eyes narrowed, studying me closely.
“You need to go,” I said again.
“You hungry?”
Not only not going to answer me about why he was in my house, but also not going to listen to me about leaving.
Fucking great.
And yet, I was also trying to ignore the little tingle inside me, the one that liked that he was there in my house. The idiotic tingle that liked his deep, mysterious eyes on mine, relished in his touch, was jumping with joy and throwing a total told-you-so my way, considering I’d been playing with fire for the better part of three years trying to get his attention.
Now I had it.
And I couldn’t decide if I was terrified or really freaking excited.
Both. None. All of that and more.
Which was why I whispered, “You need to go,” for a third time.
Which he ignored. For a third time.
But then he stood up, and I thought that perhaps, for one second, he was going to listen to me.
I should have known better.
Because instead of marching to my front door (and out it, preferably), he moved into my kitchen.
“What is going on?” I muttered under my breath, the sentiment seemingly asked twice over when the sound of pots and pans rattling, my fridge opening and closing met my ears.
My cell rang just as I heard the click-click-click of my stove lighting.
What. The. Fuck?
Eyes drifting from the kitchen to my cell’s screen, I saw that Pru was calling—probably from the airport, probably worried, probably hating that I had forced her to go home the night before.
So I didn’t delay in answering my phone.
“Hey,” I said.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Not dizzy at all this morning.” Not after my head had cleared because Raph had put his hands on me, rubbed gently up and down my arms, had used those soft words, that gentle tone with me.
Of course, I hadn’t tried to stand up either, so that might be a game changer.
But, truthfully, I did feel better.
