Page 86 of Intense
A war between anger and lust battles within me.
Then my hand wraps around her throat. Hard. Not to hurt. Just to hold. To confirm it’s really her.
My grin spreads slow and sharp across my face. Our eyes lock. Those brown contact lenses can’t hide the true blue beauties beneath them.
I slide my hand along her body, every curve committed to memory.
It’s almost as if I’m trying to prove myself wrong. That this cannot be my Stephanie.
And then, right there. The spot where I held her yesterday.
My fingers dig in, and her breath catches.
The shoe fits. Or in this case… the hand fits.
Perfectly.
“So, are you going to tell me what my wife is doing in a place like this?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She licks her lips as I pull her face closer to mine.
Fuck.
The outfit. Her bare skin, begging to be marked. Those long legs wrapped around my neck. As she moves her hand to place it on my chest, I freeze, snatching her wrist to stop and shake my head.
Don’t.
Not there.
The tattoos hide the worst of it. But the scars? They run deeper than my skin. Beneath the ink, I’m still bleeding. Always will be.
Her eyes widen.
I pin her with a glare.
She doesn’t know. Can’t know. That even now, I’m still waiting to be hurt again.
Before, back in Vegas, I was drunk. Unarmored. I let her touch me because I wasn’t really there.
Now? I’m sharp. I’m clear. I’m in control.
And I don’t fucking do touching.
She rips her hand back like I just burned her, but I don’t release my grip on her throat.
Not yet.
She’s fascinating like this.
Caught. Exposed. Still trying to figure out whether to run or submit.
I run my fingers through the fake red hair and slowly pull it off her head, those dark locks in a ponytail beneath. I pull out the hairband and let it fall over her shoulders.
“Here she is,” I mutter.
Her breath catches as I lean in, running my tongue along her jaw, her legs inching wider so I can step between them.
Her head tips back.
