The view from behind is sinful.
Some men walk. Others stride. Rod takes ownership of the space.
I close the door, lock it and follow him.
Rod’s expensive shoes scuff the wooden floor, and my pulse thumps with every scrape.
When we get to the kitchen, I don’t even have to say a word. He knows where everything is. I lean against the kitchen island and watch him in action. He drops the bag of cookies and crackers on the granite counter, stores the ice cream and cheese, and places the bottles of wine near the fridge.
“Done,” he says turning to face me. “We can start with––”
Rod glances down at my chest.
When his lips break into a huge smile, I lower my head. “What?” I ask.
“Does it mean you still like me?” he asks in reference to my new London-purchased‘I Like Cute Boys In Bands’, tank top.
“You’re no longer in a band. And you’re no longer a boy.” You’re a man… a smoking hot man.
“Point taken. At least you didn’t say I’m no longer cute.”
“You’re incorrigible, Wolfe.”
“But do you still like me?” he insists.
“Don’t be silly, Rod. I’ll always like you. You’re my best friend. Stop asking silly questions.”
“Fair enough.”
His eyes are still glued to my chest. It takes me a second to understand why. I didn’t think twice of my wardrobe selection when he said he’d drop by. The loose-fitting gray tank top with open sides and cut off jeans shorts were the perfect choice when I was alone, but a pretty bad one when I have company, especially considering I’m bra-less. Rod’s dark brown eyes are veiled with a predatory glint I’ve never seen before. The fact my treacherous nipples poke hard against the thin fabric of my top makes this moment even more awkward than it already is.
He tilts his head to the side, a dangerous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he meets my gaze again.
“I—I should go change,” I babble nervously, pushing myself off the island.
Rod stalks forward. Instinctively, I backup and gasp when my ass hits the counter behind me. Those coffee-colored eyes heat up, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Two more steps and his expensive shoes halt only a few inches from my bare feet. My breathing speeds up as my mind desperately tries to comprehend what’s unfolding. He leans into me until his nose is practically touching mine. “Don’t.”
He extends his hand and drags his finger down the length of my tattooed sleeve. My breath hitches. I shiver and close my eyes.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore, Dom.” His voice is as soothing as a warm blanket.
I nod.
“The past is behind you.”
I nod again.
“Look at me,” he implores. I open my eyes and meet his caring gaze. “You’ve turned the pain into your power,” he says tracing one of my tattoos.
“I know. I’m always a little uncomfortable when people touch me.”
Bad memories stay with you for a lifetime. Ditto for scars.
“It’s me that’s touching you. You shouldn’t be uncomfortable.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure about that?”
