Page 113 of To Have and to Stalk
“I’ll make an exception,” he said, gaze still on my body.
“It’s a long list,” I said.
His stare flashed back to mine. Hungry. “I know.”
chapter
thirty-seven
SHAY
“How many spoons today, Maniac?”
I glanced up at the deep, rocky voice.
Calder leaned against his sleek black car, hands in a black wool peacoat. He wasn’t in a suit this time but was no less intimidating in a black sweater, black jeans, and black boots. In fact, something about this was more intimidating. Expensive. Casual.
“Seven out of ten,” I answered.
He smiled and walked over to me. I stayed frozen, gut fluttering with every step. This was Calder. This wasVoid. This was only our third date,ifyou counted the graveyard. Yet no strings attached was feeling less and less real.
Calder’s hand came to my lower back, leading me toward the car.
“Am I dressed appropriately for the excursion?” I asked as he opened the door for me, and I slid inside.
He’d said to dress comfortably. A black mini with a cropped black sweaterwascomfortable.
So what if I hadn’t worn any underwear?
Shit.I hope he wasn’t taking me hiking or something. Hehadsaid he wasn’t into the S part of BDSM.
Calder leaned into the car, one arm on the hood, brown-black hair falling across devilish and sparkling blue eyes. I felt his gaze like a touch, sliding from my feet, up my thighs, across my breasts and exposed shoulder, before landing on my face.
“You’re perfect,” he said, voice low. Rough. An edge I felt beneath my skin. He smiled, that one right dimple popping, and shut the door.
I watched him walk across the front of the car, transfixed. He was a black hole, dragging me into his event horizon, until I disappeared and was remade into a throbbing mess.
Nerves bubbled up in my stomach.
What if I’m all talk? What if I can’t do the things on my list?
They were fantasies, after all. I had no idea how they’d be in reality. And I’d already failed at the graveyard.
Calder glanced at me when he got in the car, pausing. “Everything okay?”
I nodded.
He stared at me a moment longer, like he didn’t quite believe me. Then his hand settled on my bare thigh without a word, and he drove.
I tried not to think about my nerves, instead focusing on how his thumb rubbed a circle on my bare flesh that sent goose bumps. I noted he had more flour on his hands.
“Why do you always have flour on your hands?” I asked.
He shot me a look. “I bake when I’m nervous.”
My brain stuttered, not computing. “You’renervous?”
He arched a brow in my direction, like my question was ridiculous. His grip was both possessive and relaxed. A delicious addictive tingle spread from his thumb all across my body.
