Page 46 of Tempting Little Thief

He reaches over and my head snaps his way, hand darting up, nicking the butt of his palm.

He pauses mid-move, raising a brow, and I raise one right back.

“You invited me in here, ’member?” he asks, crystal eyes swimming with mirth.

“I’m still trying to figure out why.”

“It’s ’cause you want me to clear this up for you.”

I frown. “Clear what up?”

His mouth curves now, and I follow the lazy path his eyes make to where he is reaching … for the phone in my lap, face up, angry, purple-ish dick lighting up the screen.

Instantly, horrifyingly, my cheeks heat. Legitimate warmth washes over my neck and face and now I kind of want to stab myself.

I’m blushing, like I have a damn thing to be embarrassed about, like the opinion or thought of the biker boy, minus the bike, at my side matters. If it weren’t dark out here, I might push him out and take off, but it is, so my humiliation is only my own.

Still, Bastian chuckles as he sits back, a low whistle leaving him.

I flick my eyes his way, watching the fascination on his face as his gaze traces every inch his greedy eyes can reach as he licks the itty-bitty blood drop my dagger left on his palm. He takes in the candy-blue leather, following the stark white stripe across to the large screen in the center, his pupils dilating as the rim rolls around it, the color fading into a new one with each full spin. His lips curve higher and higher with each second, and his eyes flick to mine after he spots the shifter.

“A touchscreen twelve-speed?” he confirms.

I nod, my gaze skimming across his features, the cynical harshness nowhere to be seen.

He sits comfortably beside me as if we’re old friends and tonight is like any other Saturday night. As if he doesn’t notice the stark difference between the two of us or how batshit crazy it is we’re two strangers who “met,” and I use that term lightly, under criminal circumstances.

I stole from him.

He broke into my building.

We fucked without exchanging names.

He looks so … calm and casual in his own chaotic and careless way. There are wrinkles in his shirt and a streak of something smudged along his cheek, as if he was carrying something greasy and wiped his hands down his face but didn’t care to look at his reflection after, too busy going about his day.

His hair is all over the place, no strands brushed any which way but lying in crisscrossed curls where they may. It’s as if he runs his hands through it often but switches off which one, maybe even using both sometimes.

Giant headphones hang around his neck, they’re brandless and bulky, and there’s a wire attached, tucked beneath hisshirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind it. The cut on his lip is gone, but the swell I assumed it caused is still there, pressing against that same silver ring.

My attention falls to his knuckles. While they haven’t healed completely, they did a little and now reveal a permanent dark mark, almost a shadow along each, one too many tears of the skin if I had to guess.

His fingers fold then, fist flexing, stretching the scarred skin taut before opening once more, and my eyes lift to find his frown pointed at his hand.

“Didn’t have to use ’em much this week.” Slowly, he looks my way.

I don’t know why, but I nod.

We stare at each other for several moments, and then he cocks his head.

“What are you doing out here, Rich Girl?”

“I have no idea.” The response leaves me instantly, and I realize it’s the truth.

I have no idea why I came out here.

I didn’t plan it, that’s for sure.

Bastian is watching me, something swimming in his light eyes I can’t name. What’s worse, I don’t feel an incessant prickle beneath the ribs, the one that triggers my mind to spin, demanding I dig dagger deep to find out what it is, as it does when I meet the eyes of most.

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