Page 22 of Breaking Blaze

Anna glared at the man before her, his thick arms crossed over his chest, his face set in a hard, grim expression, his lips pressed into a line so thin his top lip nearly disappeared altogether. Barricading her door, looking like a wrathful Viking marauder, Blaze was sexy as hell.

She sighed, he smirked—the ass knowing he won. “You aren’t going to get out of the way until I talk to you, are you?” she asked, dropping her arms to dig into her clutch for her keys.

He shook his head once, his hard, penetrating gaze never leaving her face. Tension roiled through her, her muscles clenching, preparing for a battle. One Blaze would more than likely win, hands down.

Hell no! She wasn’t going to just roll over and let him treat her like the misbehaving puppy who’d gotten out and then slunk their way back home.

Straightening her shoulders, she stepped forward, her chin up, her own gaze hard. He didn’t move. His large, beautiful body remained there, his heat flowing into her, his scent—clean and fresh—of sage and pine and him enveloped her.

She caught herself before she purred.

“Are you going to move?” she snapped, angry at her traitorous body and its untimely responses. She was supposed to be mad at Blaze, not wanting to rub herself against him like a cat in heat!

For moment, Anna wondered if Blaze was going to just stand there staring, boring holes into her face until she gave in, apologizing for being a goddamn adult. Finally, though, the menacing hulk moved aside silently.

She reached around him and unlocked the door, desperately trying not to let her breasts touch any part of him.

Holding her breath, she stepped over her own threshold, her ears primed, listening for the sounds of him following. Then the door closed. Then the door locked. Then there was silence. Her heart racing, she knew the coming confrontation would require booze, so she hurried toward the kitchen for the vodka, tossing her clutch on to the counter. She didn’t make it any further, though.

Blaze’s large, hot hand grasped her elbow, spinning her. She gasped, her gaze flying to his face.

“We’re talking. Now,” he growled, walking to the tidy living room, pulling her behind him. He sat down on the couch and dragged her down beside him. She plopped down next to him with a yelp.

“Seriously, Blaze, you don’t have to manhandle me,” she spat, trying to pull her arm out of his grip. He let go but only to wrap his muscular arm around her shoulders and drag her into his lap. Shocked she spluttered, “What are you doing?” She began to struggle, her fat ass grinding into his lap as she attempted to swing her legs to the ground. His arms tightened and he made a deep sound—like a mix between a grunt and a groan.

“Unless you want that pretty new dress torn to shreds, I suggest you stop rubbing your sweet ass against my cock, Anna-boo,” Blaze murmured, his voice a velvet warning.

She stiffened, his words like a splash of cold water that quickly turned to steam. She shuddered.

“Fine,” she snapped. “You want to talk, let’s talk, but I am doing it from the couch cushion. And you aren’t going to mention my fat ass again.” She pushed against his chest and, hesitantly, he let her go, mumbling beneath his breath. Once she was situated on the couch with two feet of space between them, she turned back to him, placing her trembling hands in her lap. Her dress had ridden up to her upper thighs, showing way more skin that she usually would, making her feel far more vulnerable in that moment.

When Blaze’s gaze dropped to her legs, her cheeks caught fire.

Just great. She’d known the man for eight years, why was she still self-conscious about her weight?

Because the man is hot as hell and can have any woman he wants—which is never you. I wonder why?

Struggling against the urge to pull the lap blanket off the back of the couch to cover herself, she blurted, “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

Blaze’s eyes didn’t snap to hers as she expected. No. They took a slow, heated path up her legs, over her curves, to her chest—which was suddenly very tight—up her neck, and finally to her face, where he seemed to scrutinize her expression as if it alone would provide answers.

“What happened, Anna?” he asked, his voice a laden whisper.

Unsure of what, specifically, he meant, she asked, “When?”

“That night,” he answered simply, knowing she would know which night he meant. How could she not? It was the night things between them had begun to twist and turn.

Might as well leave it all out there.

“That was the night I began to realize what I really meant to you,” she remarked, nearly laughing at the almost comical expression of confusion on his face. His dark blonde eyebrows furrowed.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“That night, as with most nights, you had gone out and banged some rando you met at Happy Jack’s. You called me—in the middle of the night, after I’d worked a long, exhausting shift, to ask me for your spare keys because you’d ‘lost’ yours.” She let out a humorless laugh. “What you really meant, though, was that you left your keys at the rando’s apartment—downstairs—and didn’t want to wake her up to get them.”

He remained silent, his body tense, his eyes pinning her, waiting for her to fill in all the obvious blanks in his mind.

She cursed, slapping her thighs.

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