Page 16 of Twisted Tate

She leans into my grip instead of pulling away.

I really don’t want her to test me. Because I’m losing confidence in my ability to resist her.

“Maybe I will,” she whispers.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. My hand is on her jaw. Her face is tilted up toward mine. Her breathing is ragged, and I can see the flush spreading down her neck toward those perfect tits. Her thighs are pressed together so tight I’d bet money she’s soaked right now, and she hates herself for it.

Good. She should feel as fucked up about this as I do.

I want to kiss her. And I never want to fucking kiss. But every time I get close to her, kissing is one of the things that comes to mind. I want to yank her off that stool and find out what sounds she makes when I push inside her with my lips against hers. I want to bend her over this counter and make good on every threat I’ve made.

Instead, I let go and step back.

Her expression shifts—surprise, maybe disappointment—I don’t know which. Then she shakes off whatever it is.

“Eat your breakfast.” I don’t do a great job of sounding unaffected, which pisses me off. “Then we’ll talk.”

I turn away and walk to the other side of the kitchen, putting the island between us. I need the distance. I need to not be able to smell her, feel her heat, see the way her nipples are peaked against that flimsy fucking fabric.

What the fuck just happened?

She was supposed to be off balance, not me. I’m the one running this interrogation. I’m the one in control.

But she leaned into my grip like she wanted me to kiss her. Like she wanted me to lose control.

And I almost fucking did.

I’ve interrogated terrorists who held out longer than I just did against this woman in borrowed sweatpants. My brothers would never let me live this down.

I hear her pick up the fork again. I don’t turn around. I stare out the window at the trees surrounding the cabin and try to remember why I brought her here.

My family is going to bring down her father’s sick trafficking operation. My brother is going to get his revenge for what they tried to do to his wife. That’s why she’s here.

Not because I can’t stop thinking about the way she sucked her fingers in the dark. Not because I want to know what she tastes like. Not because I feel something uncomfortable twist in my gut every time I see the fear she’s trying so hard to hide.

“You still live with your father, right?” I ask without turning around.

A pause. “Why does that matter?”

“Humor me.”

“Yes.” Her voice is flat. “Is there a point to this?”

“Do you travel much? Do you ever leave Boston?”

“Not often. My father prefers to keep me close.”

There’s an edge to her tone when she says that.

“When’s the last time you went somewhere alone? Without his knowledge?”

Silence.

I turn around. She’s staring at her plate, fork frozen halfway to her mouth.

“Reese.”

“Never, I guess.” She sets the fork down. “He can track me on my phone.”