Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, dabbing at the stain as though it will make any difference.
Long fingers ensnare my wrists, halting my panicked blotting. My entire body goes rigid, and I freeze like a spooked doe.
“It’s fine.” His voice is soft and soothing, as though he senses my spike of fear at the masculine shackles around my wrists.
But he doesn’t immediately release me. His thumbs rest directly on my pulse points, and I’m not sure if my blood is thrumming through my veins from panic or from the hit of intense arousal at his firm hold.
“It’s okay. Breathe, Abigail.”
A scent like salt-kissed cedarwood with a hint of peppery spice suffuses my senses. I must be imagining the slight tightening of strong, sure fingers on my wrists—my jittery mood is messing with my perception of reality.
“Oh my god, Dane!” Stacy appears beside us, her tone sharp with disapproval that’s directed at me. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just coffee,” he reassures her. “I have time to change before work.”
He’s still touching me.
He shouldn’t be touching me. This prolonged contact is making my stomach flip and my hands shake, even as my core heats with feminine awareness of the beautiful man who stars in my fantasies.
As though he senses my mounting distress, he slowly eases his fingers from my chilled skin, his thumbs brushing my pulse points one final time.
My arms drop to my sides—a marionette with her strings cut.
It’s all I can do to keep my knees from folding. A visceral sense of relief? Or loss?
“Look at me, Abigail.” That same soft but compelling tone in his delicious accent.
My eyes snap to his, and I’m locked in his steady gaze. This close, I can see the striations of hunter green that deepen the verdant forest shade of his eyes. His irises darken at the edges with an almost black ring that makes the rich hues vibrant despite the more muted color palette. Thick, black lashes form ebony frames around his remarkable eyes, enhancing the intensity of his stare.
“It’s all right,” he says, a low, intimate promise meant just for me.
“But I might’ve burned you.” The words drop from my numb lips. I’m so cold, despite the heat flashing beneath the surface of my frosted skin.
That lush mouth tilts in an arrogant smirk. “I’ve had worse than anything you could throw at me.”
“But your shirt—”
“I have another one at work that I was going to wear after the gym.” He cuts me off, still speaking to me in that slow, reassuring cadence. “If you want to make it up to me, you can agree to go to dinner with me.”
It’s not a question, and he’s so cajoling that I almost say yes before I can think better of it.
But my chest is too tight to say anything, iron bands clamping around my lungs. The residual shock of his touch hits me like a north wind wave, and memories of the assault slam into me.
A gloved hand shackles my wrists, pinning me to the wall. The peeling paint in my aging apartment flakes beneath my cheek, and a hard, broad body cages me in from behind. His other hand is clamped over my nose and mouth. I can’t scream. I can’t breathe…
“Abby?” The frosty disapproval in Stacy’s voice melts into honeyed concern. “You don’t look so good. If you’re sick, you need to go home.”
“Come on,” Dane says when I don’t answer right away. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
His sure fingers touch my elbow, and I simply allow him to steer me away from the mess I made with the flat white.
Just like last night, I don’t try to resist; my body softens and submits.
I let it happen.
Something must be broken in my brain, because I lack the fight-or-flight instinct—when threatened, my body does neither.
Not that Dane is a threat. The stunning man who frequents the café every morning is a suave gentleman. Even though he’s still touching me, the contact isn’t remotely violent. And it’s not entirely unwanted.
I shouldn’t be enjoying a man’s nearness when I’m clinging to sanity by my fingernails, but I can’t help edging toward his powerful body as we step outside into the Carolina heat. A soft ocean breeze barely cuts through the thick, humid air, and sweat instantly beads on my chilled brow. I can’t seem to regulate my body temperature.
Maybe I am going to be sick, after all.
The prospect of vomiting in front of him is far too mortifying. I can’t bear the thought of coming completely unraveled around the man I’ve secretly lusted after for months.
I close my eyes for a moment and draw in a deep breath through my nose. I inhale the scent of Dane’s expensive cologne again: spicy, salt-kissed cedarwood. He’s close enough that it blots out the slightly briny smell of the harbor and the musky scent of the carriage horse clopping by on the cobbled street.