Page 40 of Just a Friend for the Lion
That you’re notmeantfor someone like them.
That all they want is just a friend.
Friends. Sure.
Now, why does that make me want to cry?
I should text my sisters.
Tell them I’m having a mild crisis of the soul and could use an emergency bear hug and maybe a fried calzone.
Or maybe I should just leave.
Catch a rideshare. Order an Uber, Lyft, hell, I’d walk barefoot back to Newark if it meant avoidingthe heartbreak that’s lurking behind those Lion eyes.
Because if he looks at me like that again?
If he saysplease?
If he touches me like I want him to?
I'm toast.
No amount of sarcasm or sass is going to protect me from what I actually want.
And what I want?
Is pounding up the stairs right now like a man on a mission.
Oh fuck.
I move to run, but it’s too late.So I turn my back on the door, straighten my shoulders.Pretend I don’t give a fuck.
The door opens to the private room, and Ifeelhim a split second before I hear him.
That ridiculous, delicious heat.
The scent of leather and musk and sun-drenched testosterone that shouldn’t be allowed on a public rooftop.
“Couldn’t let you run off without backup, Kitten,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.
I make a stand, I don’t run. But I don’t look at him either.
“You stalking me again?”
False bravado, but whatever.
A girl has to do what a girl has to do.
“No,” he murmurs, closing the door softly. “I’m hunting.”
Oh. Shit.
His steps are slow and measured, but each one rings like a warning shot straight to my core.
My nipples pebble. My breath hitches. And my panties? Ruined.
“I told you to stay out of my way,” I whisper.
