Page 15 of One Secret

Cyrus looms close, boxing me in. I try not to flatten myself against the wall like a coward.

I don't fear the man. It's just that things start to happen when that body of his comes into orbit with mine. Synapses in my brain start to misfire. Heat starts burning in all kinds of delicious places. And I generally make foolish decisions.

As if to prove my point, Cyrus braces a hand on either side of my head and leans in closer. The light around us is fragmented and his face keeps getting lost in the darkness. But I know it well enough now to fill in the details for myself.

I paint in his square-cut features and his aquiline nose. Those intense cheekbones and a hard but tender mouth. Then there's the prettiest mismatching gaze I've ever seen. Those eyes, I don't need to recreate. They're burning through the shadows like twinkling ore. One green and one blue, Cyrus's eyes are all the more attractive for the razor-sharp cunning that lights them from the inside out.

He might suit the shadows over the spotlight but that is in no way because Cyrus is unattractive. And that's just from the head up.

Without his clothes, he's even more spectacular.

'You've not always been so rigid on the rules,' Cyrus whispers.

His words spark a flurry of heated memories. The late-night gloom, the dimming sounds of the hotel muffled beyond the closet walls. His hand over my mouth to cover my cries of ecstasy...

The warmth of his breath tickles over my cheek and finds its way down the back of my neck. My thighs tense and my breasts ache.

'That was one time,' I remind him.

And I was horny as shit and you… look like you, for fucks sake.

For most women, the unyielding features, the ultra-short buzz cut, and the cold blanket of detachment that Cyrus wears around himself like a wall of concrete would probably be off-putting.

For me, that wall was—is—one of Cyrus's most alluring qualities.

When we met, I didn't want a man. Not a boyfriend. Not even a lover. I hadn't wanted a partner in my life for whom I would have to compromise or care.

I still don't.

He changed my mind on the sex. But I still feel like a one-woman show. I still want to be a solo act.

And I'm not about to let my pregnancy change that.

In fact, before Cyrus's little tête-à-tête with the guy in blue and his muscle-bound buffoons, I'd had a very specific plan for the next time I saw Cyrus. The details had been fuzzy. But the end result was crystal clear:

It was a goodbye.

A thanks-I-had-a-great-time-but-lets-do-this-again-never farewell.

That is, until I'd heard their subject of conversation...

'Are you going to tell me about your trip?' I prompt again, trying to ignore the way Cyrus's chest is brushing against mine with every inhale...

'I wasn't aware,' Cyrus murmurs in the dark... 'That I had to run my social activities by you.'

All of that calm, controlled demeanor comes out in Cyrus's voice. He doesn't growl so much as he purrs. Deep and full-bodied. Like a wild cat. All that body makes his tone warm. The more impassioned he gets, the hotter the words burn; gaining heat instead of volume.

I snort in defiance over his dodging my question and try to get my arms up between us so I can fold them across my chest and put some distance between us. This damn kitchen is growing hotter by the minute...

'I believe lack of notification before you fly someone off to a tropical island constitutes kidnapping,' I point out.

'You heard?' Cyrus asks with a curious eyebrow.

'I read,' I say, tapping my lips.

Cyrus and his companion had been too far from the bar for me to eavesdrop. But the only limitation to reading lips is your prescription. And my eyesight is twenty-twenty.

Cyrus blinks. That's the entirety of his reaction. But I've known this block of stoicism masquerading as a man long enough now to recognize his version of mild surprise.

---