I stare at him. Yep, he’s finally lost whatever fragile grip he had on sanity.
He stares right back at me, one hand still buried at the nape of my neck, dark eyes fixed on my face.
The shopping bags hanging off my arms feel ridiculous. Tiny little paper shields against whatever the hell this moment is becoming.
“You can't ask people things like that,” I tell him, trying for offended and landing somewhere closer to breathless. “You sound like a jealous Victorian husband.”
Ezra doesn’t blink. “You let another male touch you,”
That sends a weird little tremor through me. Those words aren’t sexy, absolutely should not be sexy. But there’s something underneath them, raw, furious in a way I’ve never seen from him.
Usually Ezra hides everything behind polished smiles and expensive sweaters
