S. Massery

“I’m not like Greyson or Steele. I’m not going to go behind your back and scare away the guys who think they have a right to touch you. And this is even more poetic because this fucker should’ve never laid a hand on you. But especially somewhere private. Somewhere that belongs to me.”

But suddenly he’s got one hand around my throat and the other sliding through the short hair at the nape of my neck. He drags me against him, tipping my head back until we’re nose-to-nose.

I swallow, and I know he feels it. Because his fingers flex against my throat, his palm absorbing the motion. Damn if it doesn’t do something to me. I inhale slightly, my nostrils flaring. Being this close to him in general is a little rush. I have the insane urge to run my fingers through his hair, to push it off his forehead. Like he does before he puts on his helmet for games, throwing his head back to get it out of his face.

I shouldn’t know he does that.

I shouldn’t like the way he’s pulling me in.