Page 46 of Santa Daddy
The absence of his touch hit harder than it should have. Which only pissed me off more.
“I wouldn’t even call 911 if you were bleeding out,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest like armor.
We both knew that was bullshit. 911 was his line, not mine.
The words weren’t about ambulances. They were about reminding us both of the battlefield we were on.
His jaw tightened. In the space of a heartbeat, he went from amused medic to something harder.
Before I could decide whether I’d finally gone too far, he caged me against the kitchen island.
One hand planted on either side of my hips. His body a solid wall of heat in front of me, marble cool at my back. He leaned down just enough to put his face level with mine.
“Then fake it,” he said, voice rough. “Smile. Hold my hand. Look at me like you’d walk into fire if I asked you to.”
“I already have,” I snapped, thinking of that first night, that 911, that fuck against cold wall.
His eyes glittered. “And you survived.”
Too close. Too warm. Too much.
I should have ducked under his arm. Run back to the bathroom. Put eight doors between us and lock them all.
My feet stayed planted.
He slid one hand off the counter and onto my hip. Fingers splayed over the thin fabric of my pajama pants. Firm. Possessive.
“I get leverage,” he said. “And I get you.”
There it was. The honesty I’d been waiting for.
Not “I get a partner.” Not “I get a wife.”
Leverage.
You.
A thing and a person in the same breath.
The words should have lit me up with fresh rage. Should’ve triggered another round of broken lamps and creative swearing.
Instead, heat roared to life in my gut because of the way he said you. Like I was something worth having. Worth keeping. Worth bleeding over if it came to that.
“What makes you think I want that?” I asked, proud my voice stayed almost steady.
His thumb traced the sharp curve of my hip bone through cotton. My breath hitched; I prayed he didn’t notice. Of course he did.
“Because you’re still here,” he said.
The simple truth of it slammed into me.
Somewhere between the murder, the kidnapping, and the fight. I hadn’t looked for exits. Not really. I’d tested walls, but I hadn’t torn this place apart for weak points the way I knew how.
I hadn’t spent the entire night plotting how to get back to my studio and my sad ramen traditions. I’d spent it mapping him instead.
I wasn’t just here because of locks and bulletproof glass and a wiped phone.
I was here because I wanted to be. On some sick, twisted, dark-romance-worthy level, I wanted to be.
