Page 105 of Nash
I let go. Start the machine. Work the outline with steady hands and a pulse running faster than the needle. For two and a half hours I work clean lines into Ethan's forearm while the man at the wall watches me and I pretend I'm not soaking through my underwear from the memory of his jaw turning to stone.
Ethan leaves at two-thirty. I wipe the chair, cap my inks, and organize the bottles on the shelf. Behind me, Nash's boots cross the floor. Each step lands heavier than the last. I hear him close the distance, and I don't turn around because not turning around is part of it. Because making him come to me is the game, and I'm learning that I love this game more than I've loved anything in a very long time.
"Ruby."
"Hmm?" I cap the cerulean and set it on the shelf. My hand is steady. The rest of me is vibrating.
"The arm hold."
"What arm hold?"
"You held his arm for four seconds past the transfer. Standard placement is two."
I turn. There are two feet between us. Sandalwood and leather fill in the space. "You timed it."
"I time everything."
"That's either dedication or an incredibly specific obsession." I tilt my chin up and watch his eyes track the movement. The tilt does something to him. I've cataloged it for months, andI'm only now understanding why. "Are you jealous, Sergeant-at-Arms?"
"I'm observant."
"Observant." I step closer, close enough to see his pulse beating in his neck. "And the jaw thing was just a facial exercise?"
"What jaw thing?"
"The thing where your entire face turned to stone because another man's forearm was in my professional vicinity." I take another step. His body heat seeps through my shirt, warming my chest and stomach. "You know, for a man who can make me beg with one word, you have very strong opinions about where my hands go during business hours."
His hand lifts toward my waist and stops midair, hovering.
My breath catches. The space between his fingers and my body hums, charged. Electric. I lean into the gap before I can stop myself. I know what happens when the touch lands. My body is screaming for it to land.
"Don't stop on my account," I say. My voice drops lower than I intend.
"You're provoking me."
"I'm flirting with my boyfriend. There's a difference."
"There's not."
"There really is. Provoking would be if I told you I held his arm on purpose. That I watched your jaw in the mirror and added two extra seconds because I wanted to see exactly what you'd do." I hold his gaze and feel the power of it pulse through me. The ability to crack the composure of a man who runs fight circuits without flinching. It's intoxicating. "That would be provoking."
"And what are you doing?"
"Confessing."
His hand closes the rest of the distance, fingers gripping my hip, pulling me forward until my chest presses against his and his mouth is at my ear. His cock is hard against my stomach. He's been hard. This whole time. The realization hits my bloodstream like a shot.
"You held a client's arm four seconds too long because you wanted a reaction."
"Yes."
"You watched me in the mirror to make sure I saw."
"Yes."
"That's bratty, Ruby."
"I learned from the best. You taught me what the word means."
