Page 42 of A Forbidden Arrangement
“Fine, but just this once.”
Xander steps inside, ignoring the words like they were never spoken. His arm brushes mine as he passes, heat jolting through me. I go rigid, caught between pulling back and holding my ground. The room seems to close in, smaller and tighter with every move he makes.
“Get on the bed, Dahlia.”
The way he says it leaves no room for argument. My throat works, and before my brain catches up, I’m already sitting on the edge of the mattress. I don’t know what unsettles me more, his tone or how quick I am to obey it.
He sets the kit beside me. The air between us stretches taut, his knees inches from mine. Time slows when his hand lifts, fingers rising toward my face. A shiver sparks, anticipating his touch, but it never comes. Instead, he peels at the bandage, slow and steady.
A faint click of his tongue. “Wet.”
My lips twitch against a smile. There’s something so out of place hearing that sound from him. Once the bandage is gone, he leans closer. A graze brushes against my skin, so light I almost convince myself I imagined it.
A low hum rumbles in his chest, approving. “It’s healing nicely.”
He’s talking, but the pounding in my chest drowns out every word. His collar hovers in front of me, three buttons undone, fabric gaping just enough to show the strong line of his throat.
The scent of his cologne drifts between us, sharper this close, clinging to the air until it winds through me. Each breath pulls more of him in, and it fogs my thoughts, narrowing everything down to the steady rise and fall of his chest.
My eyes follow the strong line of muscle running from his jaw to the hollow at the base of his neck. The urge to trace it builds until my fingers twitch in my lap, aching to close the distance.
The sting of antiseptic yanks me back, and I hiss.
“Does it hurt?” He leans closer and blows over the spot, the cool air easing it.
Holy freaking crap.
“Ah…is this your house?” The words spill out before I can stop them, my mouth running to cover the heat coiling low in my stomach.
A quiet hum. Then, “It is now. Built for my great-grandmother.”
“How old is it?”
“Late nineteenth century.” Another sting, barely felt under the distraction of his voice. “Gilded Age. She wanted a summer home for their visits.”
Summer homeechoes in my head, the memory of castle-like walls. “It…must have cost a lot.”
His knuckles press under my chin, guiding my gaze up until silver eyes lock on mine. “There’s nothing my grandfather wouldn’t have done for her.”
The weight in his words presses hard, his stare daring me to understand. I break, forcing the subject somewhere safer.
“So, you run a company?”
He pauses, then goes back to cleaning the cut.
“Own.”
“I thought most big companies were public now.”
A low hum. “Most are.”
“But yours isn’t?”
“My family owns multiple businesses. This is one of them.”
“And you’re in charge of it?”
A quiet chuckle. My fingers curl tight in my lap.
