My pulse jumped as he said those words—deep, deliberate, and far too calm to be harmless.
My fingers instinctively reached for the handle, trying to escape the moment. It didn’t budge. Of course it didn’t. This was Shawn Wolfe’s car—everything down to the tires was automatic.
Shawn noticed my retreat. His gaze flicked toward my hand with cool amusement.
“Are you trying to run away?” he asked, voice silky and slow. “Go ahead. Try.”
I froze. My heart was pounding so loudly I was certain he could hear it.
“I’m not running,” I whispered, though the words trembled on my tongue. Even I didn’t believe myself.
He leaned closer, the air between us thick with heat. His silver Patek Philippe brushed my skin, the cool metal against warmth. Then, with a soft press of a button near the gear shift,
