Page 23 of Tyson
His jaw ticked. That little tell that meant I was pushing his buttons. Good. If I had to suffer through this attraction, he could suffer through my attitude.
"Hands up."
The command hit me like a physical force. Military voice. The kind that bypassed brain and went straight to body. My handsrose without conscious thought, and fuck, that was hot. That was really, really hot.
He caught them gently—so different from how Cruz used to grab, all possession and control. This was guidance. Protection. The difference made my chest tight.
"Primary code is your choice," he said, positioning my fingers over the keypad. "But it needs to be—"
His chest pressed against my back. Solid. Warm. Everywhere.
I stopped breathing.
"—six digits minimum." His breath moved my hair, sending shivers down my spine. "Muscle memory matters. Enter it slowly first time."
He guided my fingers to the keys. His hands covered mine completely, making me feel small in a way that was deliciously exciting. Each number pressed deliberately. 1-3-1-9-7-2. Random digits that my scrambled brain would somehow have to remember while his body surrounded mine.
"Again," he murmured. "Without my help."
But he didn't move away.
I stood there, caged between his arms, his chest still pressed against my back. Every breath I took brought his scent. Every slight movement made me more aware of how much bigger he was. How easily he could—
Focus, Rivera.
I entered the code. Fucked up the third number because his breathing had synced with mine and it was distracting as hell. Tried again. Got it right this time, muscle memory already building despite my brain being offline.
"Good girl."
The words slipped out, automatic praise in that low, approving tone. We both froze. The air went electric. My body reacting so hard I actually whimpered.
He stepped back quickly. Too quickly. Cool air rushed between us like a bucket of ice water.
"I mean—good job. Professional. Very . . . professional memorization."
I was burning alive. My face. My chest. My core.
"Yep. Super professional. Nothing weird here." My voice came out strangled. "Just two professionals being professional about professional security."
"Exactly."
We carefully didn't look at each other. He stood precisely three feet away—I knew because I was hyperaware of every inch between us. I entered the code again. And again. And again.
Fifteen more times while he watched from that safe distance, occasionally offering tips about finger positioning that sounded way dirtier than they should have.
"Curve your fingers more."
"Steady pressure."
"Don't rush the entry."
Jesus Christ, was he trying to kill me?
By the seventeenth repetition, I had it down. Muscle memory established. Brain permanently scrambled. Pussy ready to stage a revolt if I didn't give it what it wanted soon.
What it wanted was approximately six feet two inches of protective Daddy Dom energy dressed in tactical pants.
"I think you've got it," he said finally.
