"Gideon's hand lingered just a little too long."
The touch came as he guided me toward the dining table, his fingers brushing against my elbow in what could have been an innocent gesture of courtesy. But nothing about Gideon was innocent, and the way his hand lingered-warm, possessive, deliberate-sent warning signals racing down my spine.
My wolf stirred beneath my skin, caught between the urge to snap at the unwanted contact and something else, something that made me deeply uncomfortable to acknowledge. The predator in me recognized the predator in him, and there was a dark thrill in that recognition, dangerous as it was.
He pulled out a chair with fluid grace, the mahogany gleaming under the chandelier light. The seat was positioned perfectly-close enough to his own place at the head
