A piercing gaze passes between us before I bother speaking. Not attempting to soften the icy edge, I ask, “What do you want, Dwade?”
“Can I come in? Just to talk?” He steps closer and runs his hand down my arm.
My fingers ache to return the gesture, but I don’t. We’re not going there again. I may be easy, but I’m not a slut.
And the difference is?
Not the time for my conscience to speak up.
“We have nothing to say. Please leave.” I try to close the door.
Dwade’s eyebrows knit together as he wedges his foot into the empty space. “What’s wrong?”
No. He’s not allowed to ask me anything. Placing my hand on his chest, I try to push him away. Wrong move. Hard planes and contours distract me. Try to convince me to reconsider. What harm could come from letting him in for a talk?
Summoning every ounce of strength I possess, I push the man backward and pull my door closed. Locking it, I insist, “Nothing’s wrong. My focus is back. You’re no longer dealing with a weak woman.”
Leather-clad arms bracket my body, pinning me in place. Dwade leans even closer. Hot breath along with stale cigarettes wash over my cheek. “Tlazolteotl, I have never thought of you as weak.”
A delicious shudder shoots through me. Heat uncurls in my abdomen, and suddenly I’m aching for Dwade.
“We need to talk,” he whispers. “Now.”
Lust burns strongly in my mind, and all I can think of is his muscular body on top of me.
No. Not happening. Shaking my head, I grit out, “Fine. If you want to talk, we do it out here.”
Dwade drops his arms, taking the wanton warmth with him. Shit. I miss it as he backs away from me.
Breathe, girl. He’s just a…
God. A fucking god.
I swear when this talk is over there’s another one I need to have with my conscience. That bitch has issues.
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