Page 22 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
“Maybe I don’t like to talk.” I lie.
His chuckle tells me he doesn’t buy it. “The first time we met you talked a mile a minute without much prompting, so sell me a lie I might actually believe.”
“How about you’re irritating?”
That grin is back, and so is the damn flutter when he stands to full height from his spot in the mud. “That’s not a lie.” He looks back to the pipe, and without saying a word, strips his sodden shirt over his head and balls it in his hands. My eyes go to his chest. How can they not when I clearly remember the feel of those muscles etched in his torso as they moved against mine in class the other day?
Whew. They sure know how to make them good in the SWAT team.
When he turns to me, I’m sure he catches me taking a look—what woman wouldn’t?
Besides, I missed my chance to stare at him before. This time I’m going to enjoy the view.
His whole left shoulder, pec, and arm down to his wrist are covered in a dizzying array of designs and images. Color fills some, while others are shaded or left outlined. I take in the taut stomach muscles, the various scars hinting across his torso, and then the intensity in his eyes when I scrape my gaze back up his torso to meet his again.
“Yes?” he asks.
“What are your tattoos of?”
“A little bit of this. A little bit of that,” he says nonchalantly as he takes a few steps my way. “We all have our stories to tell. Some of us choose to put them on display for those who look close enough to decipher.”
“Hmm,” I murmur. Strangely, I want to look closer to know his story and yet don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I want to. He’s pushy, arrogant...but he’s here fixing my sprinkler because he cares whether I’m in class. He cares. “I figured you were trying to cover up old war wounds.”
His chuckle is soft. “I’ve got too many of those to cover up.” He moves beneath the patio cover, leaving a muddy trail with each footstep, and his undeniable energy sucks up the air in the small space between us. I slide my eyes back to his.
“I didn’t notice.”
His smile toys at the corner of his mouth. “You noticed.”
“No, actually, I didn’t.” My spine stiffens as the flutter reappears when he reaches out without any thought to the mud covering his hands and places his finger under my chin to lift it so he can study me.
“What I can’t figure out about you, Desi Whitman, is why you keep trying to pretend you’re not interested when you clearly are?”
“That ego of yours is going to be sore tomorrow.”
“Why’s that?” he asks.
“It’s working out right now, flexing its muscles and doing some heavy lifting.” It’s pretty damn hard to be sarcastic when the man still touching you is making you want to lean in and kiss those sexy lips of his and prove just how right he is.
And just how wrong you are.
A sheepish smile paints his lips. “Ah, but you like the muscles.”
I like a whole lot more than the muscles.
“Mmm.” It’s all I trust myself to say.
He leans in closer. I can feel his breath feather over my lips and the look in his eyes—one that says his interest is as strong as mine: hungry and aroused as hell—is enough to make every part of me want to step forward and into him.
But I don’t.
I want to.
But I also want to slow down whatever the hell this is.
“Hey, Desi,” he murmurs as he leans in close enough that both of our eyes flicker down to the other’s lips as we breathe the same air.
“Hmm?”
