Page 90 of Broken Pieces
I smirk, before taking another bite. The last one. I chew slower, letting it linger.
“And the grilled cheese? That your way of saying happy birthday?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m already rating it five stars.”
“You’re not the first girl to say that to me.” He gives me that bad boy grin that makes the heat sear between my thighs.
“You mean about your cooking?”
“No… about the overall experience.”
I shake my head, but the smile slips through before I can stop it.
When I finish the sandwich, Zane pushes off the counter. He moves slowly, eyes on me as he crosses the room.
The plate rests on my lap, my fingers curled tighter around the edge than they need to be. Something snags in my chest when his eyes find mine and hold, because there’s nothing soft in them.
The way he looks at me tears through clothing and scrapes straight to skin.
This isn’t curiosity. This is possession.
He drags his stare across my mouth, down my throat, then lower, his attention sweeping over my body as if he’s already memorized every place he plans to touch.
Heat builds under my skin, spills through my chest, coils tight and induces the throbbing between my thighs. I fight the urge to squirm. I don’t want him to see the effect he has on me. But my body betrays me anyway.
Wet.
Wanting.
And I hate myself for feeling every single second of it.
He takes the plate from my hands, fingers grazing mine on the way.
The contact is barely anything, but it sets me off. Heat settles deep in my pussy. I feel the clench hit hard, sudden and aching, my thighs pressing together to chase the pressure.
I sit pretending I’m not unraveling under the weight of his touch.
Pretending he hasn’t already pulled every reaction from my body without even trying.
Then he smirks.
A slow, filthy twist of his mouth, smug and knowing. The kind of smirk that says he caught the way my thighs pressed together. That he knows exactly where my mind went, because he’s the one who dragged it there.
He turns and walks to the sink.
The water hits steel, it’s loud, but that’s not what keeps me frozen. His shirt pulls across his back, every muscle shifting beneath the fabric. My eyes drop lower. His ass fills out those jeans in a way that should come with a warning label. Firm. Perfect. Built to be grabbed.
What the hell was I thinking, staying here? Alone. With him. Looking the way he does. Every inch of me is on fire and he hasn’t laid a hand on me. Please God, don’t let me do something fucking stupid.
He shuts off the tap and grabs a towel from the bench, wiping his hands.
The fabric’s rough and stained, the kind of thing that’s been used too many times and washed too few.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look at me until he’s done.
“I’ve got shit to finish in the workshop,” he says. “I’ll be back later.” He nods toward a door on the left. “Shower’s through there.” His eyes drag across the room, landing on the mattress. “You can take the bed.”
