Luther stalked back and forth, wearing a thin path in the kitchen of the house. I watched him from the barstool, tracing the coiled veins of his forearms with my gaze and reimagining the night before as he spoke to someone on the phone.
He was angry, and it turned me on. After his domineering touch, the calluses that skimmed my skin ... it made me hot all over again.
Everything about it had been perfect, not even the earthquake from hell could rain on my parade. My body felt so relaxed when I woke that morning to find the new mark on my neck.
I felt like a sixteen-year-old looking at a new tattoo.
Lazily, I took a bite of my waffle and watched Luther run his palm over his face. His messy hair and scruffy beard—the memory of the roughness between my legs—,
Luther's palm slammed agains
