Paige splayed a hand across her midriff. “I have this sensation. I can’t explain it.”
Their eyes met. His pupils dilated, merging with the liquid green irises. He stood there— large, taciturn, stunning. She could think of nothing but how attractive he was. His jaw spoke of character, and his mouth was lush and succulent. His top lip flared into a bow, and the bottom was plump and she desperately wanted to taste it. To . . . to . . . suck it.
She grew wet between her legs. “I’m . . . shaky.” Breathless, full of puzzled wonder, she whispered, “And I feel like I . . .” Belong.
She could feel his weight on top of hers, could feel . . . God, his lips dragging over her shoulder, her neck, her cheeks, her temple, could hear the echo of her name murmured in her ear. Paige.
A tremor of excitement melted her knees. “This is your place . . . ?” Her throat cramped around his name, preventing her from saying it.
“Zach.” Violently tender green eyes scanned her features. “My name is Zach. Paige.”
“Zach.” Her hushed whisper feathered into the silence, leaving her with the sensation of having done something illicit. Her entire body twittered like a wanton’s with the inexplicable eroticism of having spoken his name.
Friends. He said they’d been friends. Only friends? she wondered. And how could a woman, ever, in her life, forget him?
He gestured toward the bed, saying thickly, “You can sleep in my bed.”
Her stomach gripped as he pulled the drapes shut. “Oh, no . . . I couldn’t. Impose.”
“No. No imposing.”
He covered the threshold once more and stared into her eyes, stroking a large, restless hand up and down the wood frame. The air felt so thick with awareness that his strong, splayed hand could have been sliding intimately up her thigh.
“Do you need anything?” he rasped. “Food or . . . anything?”
Stomach squeezing as a thousand— indecent—suggestions sprang to mind, she shook her head and forced herself to stay put the moment he left even when her legs wanted to follow him.
Too restless to settle down, Paige absently glanced through the books stacked atop the TV. Cold Case Files. Hidden Evidence. Then she walked over to the window and plucked the drapes apart to reveal the quiet moonlit street outside. But no. Her heart continued beating abnormally fast.
After a moment’s hesitation, she gave in to the impulse and went to peer into the living room through the slit in the door. She eyed the small stainless steel kitchen from afar and spotted him— a sleek, mysterious feline, a weary feline, checking the windows, the door. Then he removed the gun at his hip, clearly at ease with the weapon, and set it on top of a nearby desk.
He sank into the chair, stretched his legs out far, and examined some clippings for a while.
He was going to find her father’s killer. Paige had no doubt, could sense it in the way he concentrated, surveyed, studied. He was beautiful. Sinewy, seething with restrained power. He was a quiet one, wasn’t he? Kind of shy.
A deep, fierce throb built inside of her as she watched him rise, large and gorgeous and lonely. Or maybe it was she who felt lonely.
He moved to a sofa. The soft glow of a nearby lamp gleamed richly on his hair, dusting across his face and his taut, corded forearms like gold.
In a single fluid move, he wrenched his shirt off, and Paige’s tummy tumbled. Her lips tingled, suddenly aching to . . . to . . . trace all that bronzed flesh? Press heated kisses against his sinful mouth?
He lowered himself to the couch and her breasts pricked. His abdomen was carved with slabs of muscle, his ribs perfectly delineated— scattered with scars.
He extracted another gun, a smaller one, from his ankle, and let it drop on a side table. Then his silky dark head fell back on the couch, and he groaned. The long, drawn-out sound reverberated in her bones, and Paige sealed her eyes shut, wanting to moan, too. Stop this!
Gathering her wits, she sat on the foot of his bed, stiffly at first. She removed her shoes and began to scoot up and up until her head was nicely cushioned. His room was . . . simple. His pillow . . . She rolled her head and took a whiff. Clean and masculine. Yummy, actually. She began to snuggle, arranging the pillow just so, hitting it equally on either side, lifting it to manually plump it up. Her eyes widened at the sight of a picture lying on the sheets.
It was her senior picture.
Heart stopping, she studied her own smiling face and fingered the worn edges, guessing that once, the photo had been tucked in someone’s pocket.
She didn’t know why she flipped it over, but she did— to find the shockingly familiar sight of her own neat handwriting.
So you’ll think of me.
Every second of the day, I think of you.
Paige.