Katie
Ido as Michael says and wait for him to open my door. He holds out his hand, and I take it.
Instead of easing me out of the car, he hauls me straight into him. My chest collides with his, and his hand settles on my waist. Instantly my brain remembers every cowboy novel I’ve ever read.
This is the moment the mustached rancher stops being polite and turns into a porn star in about point-three seconds. And Michael Amato has a mustache.
“Easy there, Doll,” he says as his fingers dig into my waist.
“What are you going to do now?” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and he kisses me again.
My arms go around his neck, and before I can process what’s happening, his hands grip my hips, and he lifts me straight off the ground. My legs lock around his waist and his hands slide down to my ass, holding me firmly against him.
He starts walking.
I pull back, startled. “Michael—“
“No, you don’t.”
One hand slides to the back of my neck, and he pulls my mouth back to his before the rest of the sentence ever makes it out. Without slowing down, he reaches behind me and starts digging through my purse.
The logical part of my brain says I should stop him. The rest of me is too busy kissing him. A moment later I hear the faint jingle of keys. I lift my head long enough to breathe.
“It’s the silver one,” I say, my voice a little unsteady.
He glances at me and smiles as he climbs the porch steps, still holding me easily against him. My heart is beating so fast I’m not entirely sure if it’s from the kissing or the fact that he hasn’t put me down once.
I watch, half stunned, as he unlocks my front door with one hand. The door swings open and he carries me inside without breaking stride. A second later the door shuts behind us, and I hear the solid slide of the deadbolt locking into place.
“Which way to your bedroom?”
I stiffen against him.
“Katie?”
My courage evaporates instantly. I bury my face in the warm curve of his neck, hiding there like a coward. He carries me to the couch instead and sits me down gently. I drop my gaze to the floor. There is absolutely no way I’m looking at him right now. This is so embarrassing.
He kneels in front of me and lifts my chin.
“What?”
“We could sleep,” he says. “Or I could go home if you want me to.”
“No!”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Calm down, bitch.
“I tend to have this effect,” he says, smug as hell.
I sit up straight.
“Okay. I’m back.”
He lifts a brow at me.
“You’re a dick.”
“You still want me to stay, though, right?” he asks, and he pulls that goddamn lip lick and bite combo again.
I punch him in the arm. He only grins, dragging his tongue across his top teeth, and suddenly I’m airborne. The next thing I know I’m slung over his shoulder while he strides down the hallway. He pushes open the first door. My office. He shuts it again. Second door. Guest room. Nope.
The third door opens and finally—my bedroom. He strides in and tosses me down onto the bed and starts taking off his pants.
Holy shit.
“Put on some pajamas,” he says, already stepping out of them, and somehow my body moves. I cross the room and go straight to my dresser.
I’m standing in the middle of my room holding my pajamas like an idiot while he watches me in nothing but a T-shirt and boxers. His legs are completely covered in tattoos.
Oh, that is not helping the situation at all.
“You got an extra toothbrush?” he asks. “And are you going to change?”
I meet his eyes. “Um, let me check.”
“Go change first.”
So I do.
Why am I so easily bossed around by this man?
I find an unopened toothbrush shoved in the back of my bathroom closet. When I walk back into the bedroom, Michael is sprawled across my bed. One arm is tucked behind his head, the sleeve of tattoos winding down his bicep and forearm, dark ink against his skin.
His legs are a different story entirely.
There is ink everywhere. It’s not neat or symmetrical either.
There are random pieces scattered from his thighs down—words, shapes, and lines disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers and reappearing again along his thighs, calves, and ankles.
My brain fixates on the tattoos that disappear beneath the waistband of his boxers along his pelvis.
I nearly trip over my own feet. He sits up, smiling when he sees me standing there. I decide that I hate him, so I throw the toothbrush at him.
“Here.”
He catches it mid-air without even flinching. Then he swings his legs off the bed and stands, passing close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. His hand slides around my waist and tugs me a step with him before letting go.
“Oral hygiene,” he says, holding up the toothbrush, “is important.”
He heads toward the bathroom while I stand there with my back to him.
“Oral hygiene is important,” I say, mocking him under my breath.
Two hands clamp onto my hips, and I’m off the floor.
“Michael—!” I squirm in his arms as he carries me with him. “Do you think because you’re bigger you can just manhandle me?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” he says without missing a step.
He sets me down in front of the sink and grabs my toothbrush. I watch in the mirror as he calmly puts toothpaste on it and hands it to me. Then he does the same to his. Apparently, we’re brushing our teeth together now. I stare at him through the mirror.
He grins.
I don’t.
I spit and rinse my toothbrush.
“You’ve gotten really comfortable in my house after one date,” I say.
“I came to your work for a week and sat in a booth watching you. Are you surprised?”
Oh good. The stalker is self-aware.
“Are you going to kill me in my sleep?”
I glance at him through the mirror, and his eyes flick to my mouth.
“And never kiss those lips again?” he murmurs and smiles. “I don’t think so.”
“You go first,” I say, gesturing toward the door.
He shakes his head, so I cross my arms.
“I’m getting really tired of you telling me what to do.”
His mouth twitches. “I don’t think you are.”
“Ugh!”
I throw my head back and stomp back to my room like a five-year-old. I yank the covers back and crawl into bed.
Michael walks in a second later. He raises an eyebrow, grinning, and slips into the other side of my queen-sized bed. I huff loudly as I rearrange everything—pillow, blanket, legs—shifting three different times until I’m completely turned on my side, facing away from him.
He scoots toward me. The bed is already too small for his massive frame, so now he’s basically right on top of me. His hand slips under the covers and lands on my hip, and my entire body lights up.
“Did I say you could touch me?” I say, still facing away.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” he says easily, “considering you haven’t kicked me out of your bed, Doll.”
I spin around.
“What is up with that stupid nickname?”
“You don’t like it, Doll?“ he asks, putting extra emphasis on it this time.
And of course, I like it.
“What are you, some mafia boss from the forties?”
He grins and wraps his arm around me, tugging me against him.
“You have no idea.”
“You’re so stupid.”
I sigh.
“But you’re also warm.”
I tuck my head into his chest, and he chuckles.
“All that stomping down the hallway for this.”
“Don’t mess with me,” I tell him. “Your nuts are literally less than an inch from my knee.”
The playful threat fades into silence when my brain helpfully supplies a new image—me sliding my knee forward and grazing the front of his boxers. Tracing the firmness I’ve already felt against me.
Holy hell, brain. Shut the fuck up.
I look up and find him already watching me.
“We could go to sleep,” he says quietly. “Or we could do something else.”
His gaze drops to my lips again, and his grip tightens slightly. Suddenly, my throat feels very dry.
“I can’t have sex with a man I just met,” I say.
“Then I’ll wait,” he says. He kisses my temple and adds, “You let me know.”
Oh great.
The six-five Greek god in my bed says he’ll wait like my virgin ass isn’t already picturing spreading my legs for him, and imagining how good it will feel when he’s inside me.
I’m absolutely doomed.