Page 92 of Broken Lines

“As long as you don’t passouton me again.”

“I’m guessing it wouldn’t be the first time you have passed out girls in your company?”

He frowns.

“You’ve got a low opinion of me, don’t you.”

“Sorry. Just a joke.”

I swallow, moving as if to stand up.

“Hang on, cowgirl.”

Jackson moves to stop me, but I scowl and slap his hand away.

“I’m fine.”

I stand, and instantly, my head swims and my legs give out. But instead of falling onto my ass, or my face, I fall forward…

Right into Jackson’s arms.

Heat blooms across my skin as my palms go flat to his broad, muscled chest. His big arms wrap around me, his hands at the small and mid of my back as he pulls me against him.

I don’t fight it.

I don’t go catatonic, or freak out, or turn cold.

Instead, my pulse thunders in my ears. My body shivers a little as electricity tingles across my skin, raising every hair and tuning every nerve. I can feel my face throb with heat as I raise my eyes to his.

Still lethally cool and steely. Still illegally gorgeous. Still alarminglyun-alarming to me.

Because he very much should be.

Because every time since what happened to me that a guy has touched me, or been this close to me, I feel fear. Because the idea of standing chest-to-chest, wrapped in the arms of a man with firelight crackling over us has forever been a completely unrealistic fantasy to me.

And I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried. I’ve gone out with the tamest, most house-cat guys in the world. Guys who were sweet, and completely not pushy, and understanding that my preference was to go slow.

They all blew up anyway.

And now, here I am with the opposite of that. Not in a public park, or a cafe, but in an isolated home, locked in an embrace I’m not entirely sure Icouldbreak out of if he didn’t allow it to happen.

With a man who is the opposite of tame and sweet. A man notorious for getting what he wants from women.

A professional hunter, and he’s got me locked in his arms, holding me like I’m already his next meal.

But I’m still not scared. I’m still not freaking out, or losing consciousness, or screaming at him. And the worst, most cringing, most mortifying part of all of this, is that I don’twantto scream at him or push him away.

I want him closer. Iwanthis hands on me, because it’s just hit me that for the first time since the night of the monster, another person’s touch is making mecalm, not terrorized.

My face burns hotly.

Actually, the worst,mostmortifying and horrible part is that he isn’t just make me feel calm and safe.

He’s making me feel desire. And lust. And a need for more.

Jackson’s hands stay firm on my back. They’re not wandering, or pushing for something else, or any of that. But it’s like the sheer presence of them on me, with my heart thudding against my chest and his, has me sinking into this sinful, heated place.

His touch has me pulsing and burning with fire, and power, and agency.

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