His right hand slides away from the wall and comes to rest on my waist. He presses his forehead against mine and sighs. “Pink. It had to be fucking pink.”
The hotness of his breath shoots fire through my entire body. I feel the friction from my chest all the way down to my toes.
Oh no! I’m being sucked in again. I shake my head back and forth. Nothing about Jeremy is safe. I need to snap out of it. He’s trouble. Heartbreak. Wrapped in a tight black t-shirt. One that’s showing off every flex of his firm, toned muscles—muscles that I want to feel move underneath my fingers.
“Fuck.” He smacks his hand against the wall next to my head, shocking me out of my haze. “You need to be careful.”
“I have been. I take the gun you gave me everywhere I go.”
“No.” His hands grip the sides of my thighs, just under my scar, wrapping my legs around his waist. His body pushes into mine, pinning me up against the wall. The roughness of his jeans digs into the skin of my inner thighs. I can feel his erection pressing against my panties, hitting me right in my core where I want him—need him. His lips graze against mine as he speaks. “You need to be careful of me.”
Christine Besze is a writer, reader, mother, wife, and lover of all things wine. She lives in her own world of crazy most days, because the voices inside her head hold some great conversation. When she does have to come back to reality and act like an actual grown-up, she spends her time with her handsome hubby Z, their two gorgeous gingers and their mini-herd of German Shepherds. Born in sunny Southern California, she recently made the big leap with her family to the East Coast and couldn’t be happier. You’ll still find her in flip-flops—with a full glass of wine—all year round.