Page 86 of Roulette Rodeo
Every time I think I’ll shake myself out of it, my gaze snaps right back to her, to the way she watches me with those unwavering eyes. Not predatory or pleading, but with a rare kind of ferocity. The eyes of someone who’s already survived the worst and knows she can take a little more.
My hands curl tight on the porcelain. I can feel the heat of her radiating through the surface like the metal of a freshly spentshell. I’m supposed to be cool, calculated, separate from all of this. But the truth is, I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in years.Maybe ever.That’s the real danger, the one nobody trains you for—the op that doesn’t end when you leave the room.
There’s an excuse for every scenario:
If I say I need to check the perimeter, she’ll know I’m running.
If I act aloof, she’ll know it’s a lie.
If I say I’m worried about her, she’ll call bullshit and remind me she’s a grown woman.
If I say her offer is too tempting, I’m screwed either way.
Every avenue just leads back to her, to the way her skin flushes up her throat when she’s embarrassed or angry or, right now, turned on. I know those signs by heart. I know what it means when her pulse jumps and her lips part just so. Or when the air fills up with her scent, the sweet and wild spike of it is almost dizzying.
I try to focus on anything else—the way the condensation beads on her collarbone, the tiny pink scar just above her hip, the nervous flex of her toes under the bubbles. But all it does is make me want to know every inch of her, memorize every secret.
The real kicker is, I could shut this down easily.
Say this is suddenly transactional and nothing more, or even say she deserves better than some broken-down military Alpha with trust issues, who doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.
But none of it would be true.
And I don’t want to lie to her…oddly enough.
She’s not looking away. Not blinking, not fidgeting.
Just waiting to see if I’ll take the risk.
My cock is already a lost cause, a steel bar against my thigh, and I swear to god if she asks me again, it’ll be game over. The bubbles tremble with the tremor in her hands. She tries to hideit, but I see it—she’s nervous, too, and that only makes me want her more.
Not to break her, not to overpower, but to give.
Fuck, when’s the last time I wanted to give anyone anything?
I let the silence hang a second longer, then I reach across the space and touch her cheek, just to prove it’s real.
Her skin is fever-warm, pulse caught under the thin shell of bone. She shivers, and it’s not from the water.
I don’t kiss her.Not yet.I just let my thumb trace the line of her jaw, gently as I can, while she holds her breath.
Her eyes go wide and a little wild.
I see the moment she realizes how exposed she is, how naked not just her body but her intention has become.
And still, she doesn’t back down.
I want to say something poetic or even just coherent, but all I manage is a low, “You’re dead serious, aren’t you?”
She nods.
Blushes deeper, but doesn’t look away.
“I said what I said.
My control is a cracked dam.
The want is spilling through in every direction, pressure mounting as every heartbeat sends another fissure through my so-called discipline. Standing at the edge of the tub, I’m locked in a standoff with the most dangerous person I’ve ever met, and she’s not holding a weapon—unless you count those eyes, the curve of her collarbone above the bubbles, the way her lips part just enough to show she’s not sure if this is a test, or a joke, or a hallucination.
