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Why does he sound so mad?
My nostrils flare at his words—because I havebeen criticized about eating in my lifetime, thanks to shitty people like my ex—and my stomach does a little flip, making me feel nauseous that maybe that is what he’s saying.
The attention is too much.
Heis too much.
“I don’t wanna mess it up.” The excuse comes out quiet, weak, and a whole lot not like me when I gesture to the color on my lips. I worked too damn hard on undoing all the shit I’ve been through.
So why does the heat in his gaze make me feel so damn small?
What I expect is a roll of the eyes, a shitty comment about not needing the lipstick, or maybe even a shrug and a dismissal.
But Fin has never been one to do what I expect.
Nope.
I subconsciously jerk when he steps forward, his scowl so deep on his face that his eyes are shrouded in a shadow that is both terrifying and intriguing. Fin wraps his large hand around my wrist in a way that’s not so different from just yesterday as he leads me over to the only rollie chair in the room. The calluses on his fingers course over my skin, the feeling pulsing in my panties, and he pushes me back until my ass hits the cushion.
Taking the torn-up potato from my hands, he tosses the remnants onto a plate, along with another full hashbrown and a helping of eggs, and sets the serving in front of me with a little more force than necessary. He then snags a fork, tosses it on the plate, and repeats the process with another helping I assume is for himself.
I watch the man with a certain level of awe, confusion, and a tinge of anxiety as he piles the second plate high. Nerves battle themselves in my belly as I study the way his hands move and the tattoos that ripple along the thick muscles on every inch of exposed skin. My heart patters a little differently when my gaze comes up to his face and rests on his blue eyes set beneath an arched, pierced brow and above a pierced nose.
Eyes that dart over to me, down to my untouched plate, and then he’s gone. Stalking into the bathroom and moving enough shit around that it sounds like he’s practically destroying the place, he comes back out with my little makeup bag—the black one with little sparkling blue bats patterned over the surface—and slams it down next to my elbow.
“No excuses. Now fucking eat.”
And then he surprises me yet again by kneeling next to me, his plate pushed up next to mine, and starts eating like this is just normal.
Like heis normal.
This is not fucking normal.
Working a swallow down my throat, I pick up the fork and stab at the eggs until the tines are full and I feel his eyes leave the side of my head.
Those eyes are back again when I gingerly place the bite between my teeth and pull the fork back clean, despite the fact that the little devil inside my head is screaming to tell him to fuck off.
If he were anyone else, I would.
I also wouldn’t feel my pulse in my crotch.
What iswrongwith me?
Clearing my throat, I repeat the process until I’m full of eggs and potatoes and Fin’s piercing blue eyes have gone back to focusing on his own meal instead of mine.
“Was that so hard?” It’s almost a whisper, as if a voice as deep as his could accomplish such a task without it sounding like a growl that shoots straight down my spine and settles in my core.
And still, with a full belly and a protective attitude, I shake my head but open my mouth. “No, but fuck you.”
I ignore the way his words make my body react, the way his rough thoughtfulness makes me question my sanity. I definitely ignore the way Fin’s eyes seem to see right through me and push up from the desk with a flip of my hair and let the robe drop to the cushion my ass just left.
I snag my makeup bag, avoiding the way his growl reverberates its way around my ribcage and use the decorative mirror hung on the wall opposite the bed to touch up the spots on my lips I wore out with eating. I straighten my spine for one last look in the reflective surface.
Tousling my hair just a little bit more and doing a quick pocket check, I spin to my bestie, grab her foot when she continues to ignore me for her vocalist, and tickle until she approves of my outfit like no one else is even in the room.
I know he is watching me. I feel the tingles all over my skin. And yet I tuck the lipstick tube in my back pocket next to my phone, check for my keycard a second time, and leave the room without another glance at the man that makes me wanna look a hundred times, not just twice.
Because that just feels dangerous.
